


Static on The Radio

by ochiruu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Coffee Shop AU That Gets Rapidly Derailed, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee Shops, Elias is a smarmy shit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Wants To Kill Jon, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hot!Jon, M/M, Martin Meets Jon In His Café And Gets Involved In The Archives Crackheadery, Martin Works In A Café Instead of The Archives, Non-Archives Martin, Post Jane Prentiss, Slow Burn, The Archivists are Happy For Once, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ochiruu/pseuds/ochiruu
Summary: “Thank you,” said the man, his voice soft. His face was gentle, the lines scored through it less graven. “I appreciated that. I’m sorry about your mother.” His hand was splayed across the now-finished bandage, one trousered leg dangling off the sofa. His eyes seemed huge and dark, travelling from Martin’s own eyes to his lips to his freckled cheeks and back again in a manner Martin found intoxicating. He was leaning in, his face only inches away, features soft but unreadable.-Martin never joined the Archives and is working in a London café. Cue Jon, who blows in from the cold and disrupts his cosy life with stories of impossible entities and creeping fears. Before he knows it, Martin is hopelessly involved and soon there won't be any going back - for him or for Jon.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 51
Kudos: 143





	1. in which martin fucks up

Martin swilled the metal jug of milk expertly and stuck in the steaming nozzle. A high bubbling screech cut through the comfortable hubbub of the café and he tipped the jug until it subsided, froth roiling and swirling in his hands. As soon as the metal got too hot to hold he turned the wheel to stop the steam and poured the milk into a cup with crema-bronzed espresso. A dash of cocoa powder over the top and he was done.  
He compressed the lid on, wrapped the drink in a napkin and slid it over to the counter. “Tall cappuccino?”

His hand, still on the cup, made contact with someone else’s as fingers brushed his own. Startled, Martin looked up - and straight into eyes like nothing he’d ever seen before. They were dark and leaf-shaped, huge, tranquil, with irises darker than peat pools and pupils lit with a strange amber inner light. Martin held his gaze, transfixed, long enough to see that the irises almost seemed to be moving, as though some imperceptible forces were warring in the darkness behind the sclera.

Thinking on it later, it almost seemed to him that they sucked in light, twin black holes in the galaxy of a scarred face. (But that was stupid, Martin thought, beginning to sweat, fingers twitching towards his poetry notebook.) Now-Martin gathered himself, withdrawing his hand and plastering a customer-service smile on his face. “Enjoy! Have a good day!”

The face that the eyes belonged to lit up in absent acknowledgement and the body that the face belonged to moved away. Martin’s thoughts were all over the place. He tried to get back into the smooth practised routine he knew so well, but those eyes… they felt burnt onto his retina, the green-red afterimage flashing when he blinked.

The rest of the shift passed in two ways - either Martin keeping a surreptitious eye on the alcove where the strange customer sat, or trying to actually do his job and flubbing the orders. Peering over the cups arranged on the coffee machine, he could just about see the stranger sitting hunched over what looked like a tape recorder, earphones in, expression intent. He was scribbling notes, barely touching his cappuccino. He wore a long dark coat over a soft bluish cable-knit sweater vest and a white shirt. Martin got the sense he was academic, perhaps professorial, and probably had years of university under his belt. Exactly the sort of person Martin had nothing in common with, but for an ivory tower type he had a lot of scars. His hair was ink-dark and curled close to his scalp and above his ears, and he was badly shaven, with nicks and uneven stubble. An erratic energy seemed to pulse through him, all fidgety hands and bouncing knees - a smoker, maybe? And what was with the tape recorder? He appeared to be playing a tape with a Walkman while recording another tape all at once.

“Tall mocha with vanilla, Martin,” his coworker hissed, and Martin scrambled to attention. God, where was his mind? Why did he care that some rando in his café was wearing socks with little cats on them, visible where his expensive-looking trousers rode up? It wasn’t endearing. It was just weird. Martin didn’t look up when the customer left and finished the rest of his shift with perfect attention to detail. He slept badly that night, dreaming of fathomless, churning eyes.

*

The next day, he clocked in at his usual time around half ten and took the usual pleasure in tying his apron, nestling his cap on over his brown curls, dusting icing sugar over custard tarts. The café was lit with enough fairy lights to decorate New York City at Christmas and Dreams by The Cranberries was echoing around the rapidly-filling tables. He said hi to Lydia and Mike, his coworkers, exchanged light-hearted conversation, and got to work. The routine quickly enveloped his thoughts - take the order, put grounds in the portafilter, get the shot into the cup, steam the milk, add any extras, plonk it on the counter, call the order, repeat. He’d been doing it for years.  
Still, whenever a cappuccino order came around he felt a little jolt, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind it would be tall, dark and watchful from yesterday. No such luck.

“Tall americano!” he called, sliding the cup onto the counter and looking up to search for the customer. A voice said “Oh - er. That would be mine.”  
Somehow, he had escaped Martin’s notice, almost only appearing when he made himself known. Determined not to get lost in those eyes again, Martin gazed fixedly at the man’s forehead, and was doing really well at the whole “Enjoy! Have-a-lovely-day” nonsense when the man’s hand settled over his own again where he hadn’t yet let go of the cup.

Startled, Martin’s hand spasmed and his grip tightened, sending scorching coffee bubbling up over the brim of the cup and over both their hands. The man cried out and recoiled, flicking drops of what was essentially coffee flavoured lava all over himself, the wall and the floor. Martin, babbling apologies, grabbed a napkin and leaned over the counter, attempting to wipe the liquid off the man’s already scarred hands. Between strings of curses the customer apologised too and even attempted a half-smile.

Martin, somehow close to tears from the shame and embarrassment, remade the stranger’s coffee. He did his best to ignore the reddening mark on his hand, but it stung and did nothing to help the fact that the man stood nearby, inspecting his burned hand with clinical detachment. As he finished the coffee, Martin realised it was now technically his 15-minute break.  
He set it down and, appalled at himself for what he was about to do, turned to the stranger. “I’m really, really sorry,” he reiterated, and the man waved him away. “It was my fault too,” he answered, his tone businesslike, his pronunciation arch.  
“If- If you wouldn’t mind…” Martin began, “Would it be okay if I sat with you… for a moment? J-just to pay you back? I know it’s out of the ordinary but I’m on my break so...” he trailed off, stammering.  
The man sighed through his nose, regarding him with perturbed attention. “How… unorthodox of you. Yes, I suppose it is all right.”

Sweating, Martin took off his apron and cap before seating himself opposite the bemused customer. He ran a hand through his cap-tousled hair, realising with dread he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say. He went for politeness, half-born out of habit and half of guilt from the burn incident.  
“It’s very nice to meet you, I really am terribly sorry about burning your hand. I swear I’m usually more professional, it’s simply an off day for me today, I suppose. My name’s Martin! I work here,” he gave a simpering little laugh, “If you haven’t noticed by now.”  
‘Jesus Christ, Martin,’ he swore mentally, kicking himself. He dug his nails into his palms. “A-and what about you? Do you work around here? G-government, maybe? I haven’t seen you in here before.” 

“Nice to meet you too… Martin.” Martin could have sworn that was disdain he detected in the stranger’s odd intonation. “I suppose you could say I work around here. Research work, you see. I don’t usually frequent cafés, but my coworkers have become somewhat insufferable of late. It’s a reprieve to come here and, once I put in my earphones, find some peace.” He glanced pointedly at his burned hand. “Usually.”

Martin blushed to the tips of his ears. “Don’t worry,” the customer said, cutting off his mumbled apologies. “Workplace mishaps happen all the time.” He stroked the pockmarked back of his hand with a rueful air. “Heaven knows I’ve had some myself.”  
He looked slightly less guarded in that moment, eyes distant, brows loose instead of locked in a constant scowl.  
“What happened?” Martin asked.  
The stranger looked about to reply when his eyes focused on Martin, took in the tousled hair, the freckled face dusted with flour, the apron on the chair. His expression shut down and retreated into itself, doors in his features closing. “Oh, nothing,” he said, hasty now, and gathered up his bag. “I really must be going. Thank you for the coffee and, er - the chat. It was delicious. The coffee, not the chat, I mean. Goodbye.” He stood, and just like that, was gone.

Martin looked at his cup - he hadn’t touched the coffee. He rubbed his sore hand and stared out after the stranger, lost in thought.


	2. in which martin clocks daisy over the head with milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Content warning and huge injury tw for anyone who doesn't like blood, gore etc... this may not be your chapter. Let me know if there are any other tws I should flag up!

Two weeks later, Martin stared with an absent eye at the Tesco Express milk fridge, thumb stuck in the strap of his rucksack.

It was roughly ten in the morning and he’d been late last night, watching reruns of Bake Off until dawn filtered through his blinds. He was afraid to sleep lately. His dreams had been dark and turbulent, bizarrely filled with eyes and creeping rot. He’d have to lay off the cheese before bed, he reflected dully, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He had probably been staring at the buttermilk for about ten minutes, reluctant to move on and get to his shift. He felt unobserved among the morning rush of people - to all appearances just someone really, really torn over the tough choice between red low fat and green medium fat milk. He liked that anonymity. Nobody in Tesco knew who he was or why milk apparently fascinated him so. Nobody ever said “Oh, I remember you! You’re that guy from Tesco who faffed around for forty minutes over the all-natural Greek-style Madagascan organic vanilla and blueberry yoghurt.” Maybe he could just stay here until closing. Skip his shift. Dissolve into the timelessness of the Tesco fluorescents. Become one with the produce section.

A pleasant idea, but it meant he wouldn’t see the tall, dark and handsome stranger should he show up to the coffee shop today, and seeing as that was Martin’s current favourite hobby he was damned if he wasn’t going to do it. That particular customer hadn’t been back yet since the coffee-spilling incident, but Martin enjoyed the feeling of nervous anticipation, of not knowing.

Another customer, an old woman, ploughed past him in the aisle. She knocked him just enough to make three packets of dry ramen tip off the shelf and, cursing, Martin bent to pick them up.   
As he rose again, he noticed that the workers at the till had stopped scanning and packing things, their gazes snatched away by something outside the window. He peered out with curiosity, moving through the biscuit aisle to get a better view. What he saw made him drop the caramel digestives he was holding.  
The man - the handsome one from the café - was pelting down the street outside, dark coat flying behind him. He had a look of absolute panic on his face and looked over his shoulder as he ran, weaving through the traffic. Cars screeched to a stop and he raised both hands apologetically as they, beeping, missed him by an inch. Martin, dumbfounded, turned his attention to what he was running away from and saw, to his utter astonishment, a huge masked woman striding down the path, pointing a gun. She took brutal aim and her target skittered away from a lamppost as a bullet flashed and threw sparks, having whizzed past his ear. Passers-by screamed and scattered, pouring away from the woman like pigeons from a hawk. Someone in Tesco was on the phone to the police.  
The attacker raised her arm and fired again, running towards Martin’s café man, who was on the other side of the road, trying to cut through the crowds. 

That was what it took to knock Martin out of his frozen-in-shock state. Before he knew what he was doing he had dodged the thunderstruck security guard at the door and was sprinting into the street, unpaid-for milk and biscuits in his grip. The woman was a metre or two away, attempting to take another wild potshot at her quarry, and Martin did something he never would have expected of himself. He clenched his fist around the two-litre carton of milk and swung it with all his strength at the back of the assailant’s head. It connected, hard, and to his surprise the woman toppled like a bag of bricks to the pavement. 

Martin stood there, about to release an incredulous whoop of victory, when he realised people were still screaming and the security alarm from Tesco was wailing behind him. Without another thought he made his way through the mass of unmoving, beeping cars and terrified people, leaving the stunned attacker in his wake. Glancing back, Martin could see to his horror that the downed enemy was stirring again, trying to get to her feet.

Shoving the biscuits into his pocket he grabbed the man by the hand, who stared at him with shock. Together they tore down the thoroughfare. Martin steered his new ally left, then right, then left again, directing him breathlessly as they ran. “I live… two streets away…” he choked. He suspected neither of them had run this much in years, as the fugitive next to him seemed as close to coughing up his lungs as he did.  
Martin had no plan in his head, of course, except to get back to his block of flats and hide. Maybe call the police. Maybe eat the hard-won digestives. His hand was still in the grip of the stranger, long pianist fingers enveloping his own, and he tried not to think about how insane this was. Finally, they reached his street, and Martin checked behind them in the desperate fear their assailant would be right in their wake. She wasn’t though, and Martin led the café man to his building and buzzed the key fob to the heavy glass doors. They hurried over to the elevators, both conscious of how open the foyer was and both panting fit to expire.

“Did she hit you?” cried Martin, waving an unsure hand around the man’s jacket.   
“Barely grazed me,” the man hissed, shoving past him through the elevator doors and punching the close button.   
Taking a slow breath, Martin caught a distorted and pale flash of his own reflection in the green-tinged infinity mirror as the lift whirred into motion. His companion leant against the walls regarding him with a shallow, preoccupied eye.  
“What was that? Who was that?” Martin asked, noticing uniform, circular scars dotted up and down the stranger’s neck and arms. “Are you all right?”  
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice still cultured and superior despite the panic, “and that is someone who has had it out for me for a while. Don’t worry - she’s unlikely to follow us up here.”  
The elevator dinged on his floor and the doors slid open. The man shouldered out and stalked up the corridor.  
“Unlikely?” Martin echoed, appalled, trotting in his wake. He caught up just as the man’s long-legged stride reached his flat and he fumbled with his keys, dropping them and missing the lock twice before finally clicking it open. The interior beyond was shadowy but it was safe, and his new acquaintance locked the door and drew the curtains once inside - just to be sure.

Martin’s flat was slightly larger and more spacious than one would have expected from a medium to low pay grade in central London. A smallish kitchen opened out onto a living space with a round table, a collection of armchairs around a cluttered coffee table, and an old-fashioned mantelpiece. A corridor by the kitchen led to the utility room, bedroom and toilet. All was shrouded in dusk, broken only by orange horizontal stripes of city light filtering through the blinds.   
The man, having checked that the flat was secure, hauled himself into the kitchen and began rifling with savage energy through his kitchen drawers.   
“Paper?” He asked urgently. “Do you have paper? A pen?”   
Martin stepped forward, shaking himself out of his stupor, and fetched the things obediently. They were snatched from his grasp and the stranger scribbled some meaningless chicken scratch on them before filling a glass of water in the sink. He downed it in one gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.  
“You might have a concussion,” Martin offered, watching the movements with numb interest. “You really should go to the hospital.”   
“No… No hospitals,” the man retorted, leaning hard on the counter. “There are some things they’re bound to notice. No hospitals.”  
“You can’t be serious-?” spluttered Martin. “Someone just attacked and shot at you and you don’t want-”  
“Please,” said the man, settling a magnetic gaze on Martin. “Please.”  
Martin bit his lip. “Fine.”

A long moment slid by, and the stranger spent it getting slowly to his knees and folding himself against the fridge. “What’s your name?” Martin demanded, feeling that the question was a good start to getting a grip on the situation. The man in his kitchen sucked in a deep and pained breath, shaking his head. “No. Nope. Can’t tell you that.”  
“Why on earth not?” In his bewilderment, Martin’s voice sounded shrill even to himself. 

“I just can’t, all right? It’s for your own good.” The man made eye contact then, gaze dropping from its roving journey across his ceiling to meet Martin’s own. It felt direct, acerbic, and Martin found he couldn’t hold it for long. He inspected the linoleum floor, then the man’s face, then the floor again. The lines of the stranger’s face were cut deep with withheld pain and his dark eyes were wild.  
“Fine. And I suppose that’s why you won’t let me call you an ambulance either.”  
The man shook his bowed head again, breath coming in harsh pants. With a jolt Martin realised what he’d somehow so far managed to miss: the stranger hadn’t just been grazed. He was hurt. Badly. He was clutching his gut as though he was trying to hold his insides there, and looking now Martin could see flecks of rust-coloured blood on his wrist and forearm.

“Jesus!” he choked, and made an awkward move towards him. “You’ve been hurt!”  
“I am. Just a bit,” answered the other drily. “Know any first aid?”  
“Actually, yes,” snapped Martin, and hunted in the cupboards for a first-aid kit. He found it, and told his companion to hold onto him. Hesitantly, two slender hands gripped his jumper as Martin slid an arm around the man’s waist and hauled him to his feet. He grimaced from the pain, and Martin’s blood went cold at the sight of a fresh gout of blood wetting his shirt. The (long buried) businesslike, competent part of Martin’s brain took hold and he laid the man carefully on the couch before unzipping the kit and rolling up his sleeves. “Shirt off, please,” he asked calmly, helping him out of the bloodstained button-up he wore.  
The stranger’s lean brown chest was pockmarked and zig-zagged with scars, with the bullet wound on his left side soon to number among them. It wasn’t deep, but it was long, as the bullet had indeed scorched from the side of his hip across and up to where the ribs ended below his armpit. Martin did his best to staunch the blood, putting pressure on the wound. The man lay back on the couch, face creased, eyelids fluttering. 

“Oh thank God,” Martin breathed, fetching a basin of water and sponging the wound off delicately. “It’s not deep enough to reach any bone. You’d certainly be in trouble if it was.”   
“Wonderful,” the stranger croaked. “Feels like you’re doing an excellent job. Tell me, how do you know so much about treating injuries?”

A strange feeling descended over Martin then, like a twist in the gut. The words spilled out of him like vomit. He continued to clean and staunch as he spoke.

“I did a lot of St. John’s Ambulance in school. You know, me and a few others from my class volunteered to learn CPR and simple wound care, that sort of thing. I always thought it was interesting. I’ve never been squeamish - despite being scared of a lot of things, blood hasn’t ever really bothered me. Nor do spiders, but that’s beside the point. I just liked helping. Even something as simple as putting a plaster on someone’s barked knee or properly treating sunburn… It helped, and helping is what I’ve always prided myself on. I’m not exciting enough to have an adventure of my own, but being there to support someone on theirs? Seemed like an okay bargain to me, and it was a role I was happy with. So I kept it up, and diligently disinfected and bandaged at the meetings every week.  
“Once, we were playing rounders at school and this boy in my year fell. He wasn’t even someone I particularly liked, and he… I was a chubby kid, and he’d pick on me quite a bit, the usual pathetic schoolboy bullying. But he fell, and our school’s yard was gravel, so he ended up snapping his arm. Nobody knew what to do. We all stood there, absolutely frozen, watching him scream. Then my training kicked in, and I told Alison Bourne to run and get a teacher. I knelt over him, spoke to him, put my coat under his head and put pressure on his arm where it was bleeding. He was terrified, looking up at me in pain, not even trying to be tough. I didn’t know how I felt. They called an ambulance and he was carted off and the teachers and paramedics called me brave. It felt good. I’ve never thought of myself that way. That boy came back a few days later and never bullied me again. It felt… powerful. “

Martin gently wrapped a bandage around the man’s chest, securing it with medical tape. He couldn’t stop speaking, didn’t know where the words were coming from. His patient’s expression was rapt, almost indulgent. His eyes were drinking in the words.

“Then, when I was sixteen, my mum got sick. Dad was long gone, so for years I’d come home to find her on the sofa, eating, eyes fixed on the telly, not replying when I spoke. She was a librarian and there’d be books stacked next to her. I hated those books. She’d spend hours reading them while I folded the laundry, cooked the dinner, fed the cat. Once she was bedridden it only got worse. I dropped out of school because I couldn’t work and look after her - one, sure, but not both. So between her needs and my wants, I chose her. Being a carer seemed like a dim future spent in the drab, unchanging interior of the same poky house forever but I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t. She was my mum, you know? I told her that I’d dropped out to look after her, that I’d be her carer from now on, that I was willing to sacrifice whatever meagre uni hopes I had for her, and she said nothing. She didn’t thank me. She regarded me for a long moment, adjusted her cannula, and went back to the crossword she was doing. So I made tea. Giving her tea seemed like a way to interact without really interacting - it gave me a reason to talk to her that quickly became a veiled plea for more meaningful conversations. Any conversations, really. I was so alone in that house - nothing to do but go to the shops and make tea and cook dinner and look after Mum. Rinse and repeat. For years. That was why I started writing poetry. Reading it aloud made me feel like I wasn’t just a shadow or a ghost, some invisible creature repeating the same meaningless actions day in, day out. If I created something, it meant I existed. 

“When my mum eventually went to the hospital I loved visiting her. The hospital was full of bustle and life, and I picked up some first aid tips from the nurses there too. But we couldn’t pay the fees she needed. I applied everywhere - to tell the truth I even lied on my CV a few times - but nowhere with the salary I needed would take me. So I did what I do best - I made tea. The café job was, surprisingly, amazing. My coworkers are… great, actually, and I’m really good at what I do. But that didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t afford my mum’s treatment. She deteriorated quickly… I was there when she died. It was a Tuesday, and I held her bony hand and kissed her forehead and watched the spit condensate in her breathing mask until it slowed and the rattle in her chest ceased. The light in her hollow eyes was gone and that was it. Gone gently into that good night, I guess. I still sometimes take first aid classes. I still just want to help.”  
He finished speaking, his strange compulsion released him, and he exhaled slowly. “Oh god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to overshare like that, I don’t know why--”

“Thank you,” said the man, his voice soft. His face was gentle, the lines scored through it less graven. “I appreciated that. I’m sorry about your mother.” His hand was splayed across the now-finished bandage, one trousered leg dangling off the sofa. His eyes seemed huge and dark, travelling from Martin’s own eyes to his lips to his freckled cheeks and back again in a manner Martin found intoxicating. He was leaning in, his face only inches away, features soft but unreadable. For a wild moment Martin thought the man was going to tuck his head into the crook of his neck, but instead he pulled away, wrapping his coat around himself. “Have you any painkillers?” he asked officiously, any hints of the melting expression from a moment ago wiped away. “My ribs are… well, they’re not doing very well in terms of… discomfort.”

“Oh! Yes! Of course!” spluttered Martin, heaving himself to his feet. A terrible thought struck him - he was twenty minutes late for his shift. “Oh, hell,” he spat, “I’m sorry but I have to run. If I miss one more shift they’re going to fire me. Will you be alright here for a few hours?”  
“Are you sure?” the man sat up, surprised. “I don’t want to intrude-”

“You’ve been shot. You’re staying here. But,” he amended, dumping a teabag into a mug, “On one condition. You have to tell me your name.”  
He sighed. “I really, really don’t want to involve you in anything more than I have to.”  
Martin gestured with furious energy at the bloody bandages on the floor, at the tea he was making and at his apartment in general.  
“Point taken,” the man allowed. Martin brought him the tea, some Nurofen and a blanket and left them awkwardly on the floor next to him. “I don’t want to explain everything, because I don’t want to endanger you, and given the… entity I serve, knowledge can only be a bad thing to have.”  
“Did you say entity? You mean like a corporation?”

“Disregard that. I work for an institute that sometimes gets involved in things far above our pay grade. The woman chasing us - me - is someone who is involved with an opposing group. She never really took too kindly to me, and I think today she snapped. Still, even for her it’s a bit overt… At least she was in plainclothes… I can’t believe you brained her with a milk carton.”

With this, the man cracked a hesitant smile. Martin, unable to help himself, began to laugh.  
“I really did a number on her, didn’t I?”

“Anyway”, the man continued, an insouciant smile curling the edges of his lips, “You ought to get to your shift, Martin. Can’t have you getting fired. You should use the commotion today as an excuse.”

Martin stood and shrugged on his coat, smiling, still looking at his guest expectantly.   
He sighed. “Fine. My name is Jonathan. You can call me Jon. Thank you for… for today.”

“You’re welcome, Jon. Take whatever you want from the kitchen, I’ll be back at six,” said Martin, unable to stop himself from grinning, and he left.


	3. in which helen crashes the party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! If you're reading this I'm amazed you've made it this far. Thank you! By the way, there will probably be some inconsistencies and fix-it vibes because I'm not that good with chronology and I want all the archivists and assistants to be happy. Except for Elias. Fuck Elias. I hope you enjoy and please leave a comment as I'm a slut for feedback :)))

Of all the things that Jon felt when Martin closed the door after him, guilt was foremost in his mind. The poor man, a complete stranger, had not only clocked Daisy over the head with a two litre of green medium fat milk, but he’d bandaged Jon up, given him tea, given him safe harbour, hadn’t even asked too many questions. And what had Jon done? He’d forced a statement out of the hapless fellow, dredging up his deepest feelings and regrets. True, Jon felt stronger now, and his wound was already healing, but it made him feel greasy and sick at himself. Feeding on pain. What a disgusting life he led.

Not wanting to sit still and let his thoughts stagnate, Jon shuffled to his feet, grimacing, and made his way to the kitchen counter. He sipped the steaming mug of tea Martin had brewed and nibbled on a caramel digestive. Daisy would have to be addressed. The Hunt was growing in her and she had already almost killed him twice - but to bring civilians into the mix? That was ridiculous, even for her. He supposed the Hunt had overcome any rational thought in Daisy’s head for a while, made her see red. Perhaps Basira could restrain her, calm her down enough for Jon to return to the Archives safely. The milk attack had had Daisy crumpled on the ground. Did that mean she was lactose intolerant? Jon’s wound sent a spasm of pain up his side and he whimpered, reaching for another biscuit. 

At least it was unlikely that anything ill should come of this whole affair for Martin. Nightmares, of course, the same as any other statement giver, but nothing more. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if this Martin Blackwood fellow hadn’t showed up out of nowhere. Now there was a coincidence - the apparent bumbling fool from Costa a few weeks ago had saved his life. Where had he come from? Jon weighed up the notion that the Web was manipulating the café boy towards him for some nefarious reason. There was no real way of knowing.

Whatever the case was, Jon couldn’t complain. If not for the awkward, mild-mannered barista he’d be spilling his brains in a Chelsea gutter. He only hoped, for Martin’s sake, they never met again. Most of him hoped that, anyway. 

Blanket draped around his shoulders, wearing nothing but tightly-wrapped bandages from the waist up, Jon explored the flat. He had become progressively worse at denying his curious urges when they arose, as every time he fed the Eye, no matter how small an offering, he felt better. It was wrong to snoop, but Jon was accustomed to shrugging off his smaller indiscretions.  
Martin’s flat was buried in soft things: blankets, rugs, throws, cushions, tea cosies, even the odd crocheted bottle-top, like the ones on Innocent smoothies. Posters from indie films and 90s horror flicks plastered the walls and plants cascaded down the windowsills, creeping towards what little light spilled from the blinds. Books of fiction (crime thrillers) and poetry (Keats and Byron) were stacked neatly on the coffee table. It was all far too cluttered for Jon, sweeping a critical eye over the tea rings and microwave meal packaging, but at the same time it felt… comfortable. Not something he was used to from his own austere box flat. In fact, it threw how cold and ascetic his home life was into disturbing focus.

Not wanting to go there, Jon stopped poking through Martin’s book collection and instead began peeking through his cupboards. More for something to do, really, than out of interest - Martin had an astonishing collection of mugs. A brightly coloured Flintstone one, one with what looked like Winston Churchill on it, and one bearing the esoteric inscription ‘Hello Kitty.’ Mystified, Jon shut the press and moved on, cataloguing the contents of a stranger’s kitchen. He picked up a corkscrew, frowned at it for a moment and put it back. Nothing of any interest there. 

Then, cursing himself and knowing he was overstepping, he padded softly down the carpeted hall to the bedroom, blanket still swaddled over his slim frame. The door creaked open under his cautious touch and he poked his head into the darkness beyond. A wide double bed heaped high with blankets next to a desk buried under balled-up sheets of paper, more posters, a cosy-looking armchair, a chest of drawers overflowing with soft knit jumpers.

The bed had very clearly only seen use on the side closer to the door. So. Martin appeared to be single. Hm. Jon withdrew his nose from the stranger’s bedroom and slunk away.

He picked up the bloodstained kitchen paper and antiseptic wipes scattered on the floor and binned them, then spent fifteen minutes removing any mess his presence had caused. His white button-up shirt was unwearable, sodden as it was with bloodstains, so after much deliberation he shrugged on a t-shirt of Martin’s. It felt like another violation of the poor man’s hospitality, but what else could he do? Plus, it fell halfway down his thighs, was soft as down and smelled comfortingly of detergent. He had just sat down, (perhaps intending to nap a little on the couch before he went home, unsure why this place made him feel so dozy and secure) when he heard a rustle. A thrill of fear buzzed through him.

“Helen,” he said without turning around. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

_“Jon!”_ came the elated reply. Helen was leaning out from her yellow door, twisted grin stretching ear to ear. “ _So_ funny to find you here! Found a new beau, have we? I must say, he seems a _lovely_ sort. I can’t wait to get into his head and contort his cosy little thoughts until he doesn’t know who or where or why he is. People like him are always my _favourite_ playthings - so trusting, so easily warped. Gosh, I might even go and snatch him away from that _adorable_ café right now!” 

“What do you want?” Jon demanded through his teeth.  
“I’m just _teasing_ , Archivist,” Helen laughed. “No need to get so defensive. Is it so hard to believe I just wanted to drop in for a friendly chat?”

He stared at her, waiting. She sighed, throwing her misshapen hands theatrically in the air.

“Fine. I’ve come to retrieve you, Archivist. You’re doing _excellent_ work in the Institute, really doubling down on those statements. I would _hate_ for you to lose focus - your _job_ is to stop those nasty rituals! Not to go on coffee dates with silly little men. _Really_ , Archivist, I expected better from you! Getting distracted at this stage of the game, what are you like?” She laughed that awful laugh. “Come on now, hop in! I promise that rabid dog of yours has calmed down. A real firecracker, that one… send her my way if she gives you more trouble, will you?” She winked. “We’ll see if we can’t scrub the Hunt stench off with a few weeks of my corridors.”

“Don’t touch Daisy,” he shot back, trying not to let her get a rise out of him.  
“Why not? She didn’t have too many issues with chasing you down in the street like a _criminal_. I’d be doing you a _favour!_ But no, I won’t do that… Not yet. I want to see which kills you first, this little _fling_ of yours,” she glanced around Martin’s flat with an indulgent smile, “or that Hunt _savage_ in your office. Just a little game I play, don’t mind me. Now, chop chop! I haven’t got all _day_!”

Jon scowled and got to his feet, folding the blanket he wore neatly and leaving it on the couch.  
Carrying his coat over his blood-spattered arm, he stepped into Helen’s door with barely a look back at the dim flat. She giggled, reaching out a long arm to close the door behind him, and it folded itself into nothing. 

A moment of stillness, then the lock jiggled and Martin burst in, a flurry of nervousness and recently-bought-snacks. “They let me off early, seeing as I had been shot at before my shift began, Jon!”  
He stopped, taking in the tidy state and dead silence of his flat. “Jon?”

*

True to her word, Helen deposited him at his desk and was gone with a fading cackle. Jon steadied himself on the table, feeling a rush of nausea from the endless corridors of The Spiral. He wasn’t sure he would ever understand Helen’s motives, but she hadn’t done anything to hurt him yet. As far as he knew. And when you worked at the Magnus Institute, people - or things that used to be people - like that were hard to come by. He ran a hand through his hair, bemused by the day’s events. He needed to go home with a couple of statements and spend a peaceful evening recuperating.

“Jon?” came a knock on the door. “Is that you?”  
“Yes, come in.”  
Basira edged her way into the room, expression watchful. She didn’t seem at all fazed that he had seemingly appeared in his office from nowhere. “Are you all right?” she asked, gaze roving over his bloodied trousers and dishevelled appearance.  
“Surprisingly, yes,” Jon answered, despite himself happy to see her. “I managed to… avoid the worst of it. And Daisy?”  
“I’m sorry about her,” said Basira. “She just lost it. It’s my fault. I mentioned this new thing of yours, where you… feed off…”  
“The statements,” Jon offered.  
“That. Yes. And she started going on about how you weren’t human, how you’re a depraved thing that watches and listens and devours our fear and that you would get us all killed, yada yada yada… You know how she gets when… you know… the blood.” Basira’s glance flicked to the scar on his throat.

“I know,” said Jon grimly. “How is she now?”  
“Better. She has a concussion, not sure how you swung that one. I’m handling it. She isn’t sorry about shooting at you, she just wishes she hadn’t put civilians in danger.”  
“Of course. I would hope that next time there’s a workplace disagreement we can handle it more… rationally.”  
Basira almost smiled. “I hope so too. Well, if you’re not busy, Tim, Sasha, Melanie and I are going to head for drinks. Come, if you like. We’ll be at the Ploughman’s down the street.”

Jon spluttered, uncertain.  
“Or don’t. Either way, I have a bet on with Melanie that she’ll be able to drink Tim under the table before midnight. Should be a nice break from… everything.”  
Basira raised her eyebrows at him, turned to leave, then stopped. “Nice t-shirt, by the way. Suits you.”  
Jon looked down, blood rushing to his face. He’d completely forgotten he’d taken Martin Blackwood’s t-shirt. “I- er - Th-thank you, Basira.”  
She clicked the door shut behind her.


	4. in which jon has no idea what feelings are

The ensuing weeks saw a return to normalcy for Jon.  
Everything was more or less as it had been before the Daisy incident - he spent all his time at the office poring over statements, returned to his dour, cold flat to pick disinterestedly at cup noodles, and avoided Daisy and Elias like the plague. 

So far, so normal. Nothing like the Jane Prentiss attack or the Unknowing had happened in months, and he was beginning to relax his paranoia. The flow of incoming statements had dribbled to almost a halt in recent weeks, leaving Jon with more free time than he knew what to do with. Once or twice he even went and sat in the nearby park with a statement, watching passers-by and thinking about nothing. It was refreshing. The lapse in imminent danger and creeping fear made Sasha, Tim and Melanie rowdy, and with Elias more absent than ever things in the Archives were nearly what he would have called lighthearted.

One thing bothered him though, keeping him awake at night and preying on his thoughts far more often than he would have liked to admit. He didn’t understand it, and the time he spent puzzling over it was beginning to affect the quality of the scant work he did. Tim and Sasha had begun to notice he was out of sorts, even for him, and would harass him daily with questions about his condition. Tim, especially, would peer with a searching look into Jon’s face while they stood in the breakroom, then declare that something was off but he couldn’t pin down what it was. Jon would shrug him off with the usual haughty disdain, trying to hide the real, encroaching fear that something was terribly, terribly wrong with him, and getting worse. 

And it all had to do with that ridiculous Martin fellow.

Jon couldn’t understand it. Was Martin somehow an avatar of the Eye? Of the End? Maybe the Spiral? Of course not. That was nonsense. Jon would have been able to tell from the statement he had extracted from Martin, which instead of otherworldly terror reeked of mundane resignation and everyday grief. No, Martin had in every regard possibly been the most normal person Jon had ever encountered. So what, then, was the explanation? He had exhausted every running theory he had, his thoughts pacing in endless tiresome circles.

How was the most ordinary café barista in the world appearing in Jon’s every dream? His voice was forever echoing in Jon’s thoughts, his statement repeating itself ad infinitum in his head. It rattled around like a catchy song, bits of it snagging at the edges of his consciousness. Once, he saw a book of Eavan Boland poems belonging to Sasha lying around in the Archives and was almost bowled over with _“It made me feel like I wasn’t just a shadow or a ghost, some invisible creature repeating the same meaningless actions day in, day out. If I created something, it meant I existed.”_ The statement hadn’t been particularly poignant, or heartwrenching, or memorable. So why was it always on his mind?

Not only that, but Jon thought he saw Martin everywhere. The tousled brown hair and soft, portly form seemed to flash wherever he went - in the Camden crowds, in the reflections in shop windows, in the buttery, dimly-lit interiors of house windows at dusk. Last Tuesday Jon had been on the Tube and he could have sworn he saw Martin pass right by the window at the station. He had stood up too fast, craning his neck, knocking his statements and an old man flying... but it wasn’t him.   
He’d sat down, abashed, wondering if the Martin he remembered had ever been real of if Jon had somehow dreamed him up. But no, he’d been real. Jon, try as he might, couldn’t forget the attentive way his gunshot wound had been looked after, the wistful, distant expression on Martin’s freckled face. The details of which were, of course, fading, but if he stared into the darkness of his bedroom long enough before sleep Jon could just about conjure up a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes. It was maddening.

Jon had always had trouble sleeping, exacerbated tenfold since he’d joined the Archives. For years he would lie there, eyes boring a hole into the hairline crack in his ceiling, mind pacing the same trodden ground. In more recent years he would just stay awake, reading statements or taking hasty notes in the dim electric light of his desk lamp, letting himself pass out whenever sleep stole in.   
Now, he had a solution to his erstwhile insomnia: Martin’s t-shirt. When he wrapped himself in its encompassing softness and took to his bed he was out like a light every time. It was doing wonders for his stress and general demeanour, not to mention his skin. He had only noticed the change when Elias passed him in the corridor, absorbed in some paperwork. He had glanced up with lazy grace to acknowledge Jon before stopping in his tracks, looking Jon up and down, peering into his eyes and giving him a knowing, appraising smirk. “Very good, Archivist,” he murmured, pleased, and continued up the corridor to his office, leaving Jon confounded in his wake. It made Tim and Sasha suspicious, whispering in corners, shooting Jon sly glances and breaking into bleats of badly controlled mirth whenever he and Elias were in a room together. On these occasions they always found a way to vacate the room with a shouted excuse, leaving Jon and Elias standing in awkward silence.

He supposed he had to be thankful for Basira, who was immune to childish slagging and stood stoically at his side making tea and going about her day. She, at least, had not commented or speculated on Jon’s newfound upbeat air. He was getting sick of Tim asking why he looked so chipper, especially because he had no conceivable answer for him. What could he say? “Some barista saved my life when Daisy blew a gasket and now I dream of him constantly and hallucinate him on the Tube?” Jon’s suspicions that Martin was an avatar aside, it sounded laughable.

So much so that two days ago Jon had taken the soft blue t-shirt and folded it carefully in the bottom of his wardrobe. There was something about Martin, he decided, that wasn’t completely natural. Jon was beginning to believe the Web was truly manipulating his thoughts, making them turn to the man he barely knew. Or maybe it was the Stranger, infecting Jon’s dreams. 

Either way, he refused to let the dread powers mess with his head. He was going to free himself from the barista’s influence. If he had to battle his insomnia once more to do that, so be it. The t-shirt stayed away, and hopefully with it Jon’s temporary diversion. He had more important things - Gertude’s legacy and the end of the world among them - to worry about.  
He threw himself back into his work, redoubling his efforts, the dark shadows under his eyes more pronounced than ever. He started smoking again, relishing the breaks he took from the closeness of the office to stand outside in the rain. Tim, Sasha and Melanie could whisper all they wanted. It didn’t change the fact that he was the Archivist, and he had a job to do.

The days passed. He didn’t see the back of Martin’s curly head in public anymore, or remember details about his mother’s treatment. He worked hard, isolated himself in his office, smoked, picked disinterestedly at pot noodles in his cold box flat, and that was it. He had to be thankful that the avatars and rituals weren’t breathing down his neck for once, a brief respite from the world’s fate on his shoulders. It would be ridiculous to ask for more.   
Why, then, did he feel so empty?

*

It was late April, about a month and a half since that café worker - Blackwood, was it?- had spilled scalding coffee on his hand, and Jon was outside the redbrick Institute building in the afternoon sunshine. It was a quiet enough day in the Archives. Basira and Melanie had headed to the Faroe Islands to investigate a lead on Peter Lukas, Tim and Sasha were mixing mojitos in the breakroom and discussing holidays to go on (“Greece might be nice, I have an auntie there-” “Oh, what about _Malaga?_ ”) and Elias was, as usual, nowhere to be found. Not that Jon was trying particularly hard to find him. 

It was a beautiful afternoon, and Jon felt no real need to head back inside. In the inside pocket of his overcoat he had half a pack left, enough to keep him for a good long while, and the sun was spilling through the Chelsea Physic Garden leaves on a warm wind. He watched the traffic pass up the Embankment, his thoughts straying, not unpleasantly, to Georgie. He wondered what she was up to now. Watching one of her online horror series, maybe, or watering her plants.   
She had always been so serene, unbothered by any of Jon’s own personal tumults, seemingly untouched by the ups and downs of life. He’d always hugely admired that unassailable air she carried, the sense that no matter what happened it was impossible to truly rattle her. Only later had he learned the real reason she was so absolute: she couldn’t feel fear. Touched by death itself and wiped clean of the most basic human emotion. 

Maybe that was what drew him to her - the implicit and unasked-for knowledge that she had been marked by something huge, something unknowable. Had his whole life always revolved around the fears? Was it inevitable he ended up the Archivist, chained to his post? Or was it like anything else - entirely random, warring forces clashing into each other. Unbidden, a line of poetry floated through his mind: _“Where ignorant armies clash by night.”_ The poem was apt, he supposed. Matthew Arnold. A hopeless, depressing poem, but beautifully put. One of his favourites. He wondered what Martin would think of it.

The ash fell from the tip of his cigarette and smudged on his coat, scattering flakes down his front. Shit. He had managed not to think of Martin - not really, anyway - in weeks. He should quit smoking. It gave too much time for the thoughts to come creeping back in. Cursing at himself, he brushed the stain from his overcoat lapel and stubbed out the cigarette on the bricks, turning to put the stub in a nearby bin.

As he turned back to enter the doors, someone brushed by him, hurrying out of the Institute. 

Strange, he pondered absently, as he hadn’t seen anyone come in. Absorbed in fixing his coat, he only spared them a glance when they were well across the street. His stomach dropped. That hair, the denim jacket, the height, the walk, everything - it had to be Martin. Jon couldn’t believe his eyes. He staggered down the steps, heart pounding, coat flapping behind him, and called “Martin!” half before he knew what he was doing. “Martin!”  
A couple of passers-by spared him curious glances, but Martin didn’t turn around. He was nearing the corner when Jon, desperate, yelled “HEY!”   
His voice caught in his throat and it came out a little strangled, but Martin stopped. 

He turned, his hair torchlit and fiery in the golden slant of sun, and his gaze half-caught Jon’s. Just at that moment a bus passed, bending itself round the corner, and when it had moved Martin was gone.

Jon turned and pelted back into the Institute. 

“Rosie?” he shouted, hurling himself through the double doors. “Rosie?”   
Rosie was sitting at the front desk, glasses askew with surprise. “Are you all right, Jon? What is it?”   
“Did someone just-” he tried to get the words out, panting. “Did someone just leave a statement?”  
Rosie blinked. “Er, yes, I told him to write it down and leave it with Mr. Stoker.”  
Jon nodded his thanks and ran to the Archive stairs.

“Tim, where are you? TIM!” he slowed to a walk now, removing his coat,, doing his best to look unhurried. Tim opened his office door and poked his head out. “Everything alright, boss man?”  
Jon was breathing hard, his hands unsure what to do with themselves. “Did someone just leave a statement?”  
Tim nodded, eyes fixed on Jon with new curiosity.  
“ _Can I see it?”_ Jon demanded, impatience flooding into his tone. “Why, of course sir,” wheedled Tim, rifling through his desk, “Some bloke who cited a feeling of being watched. Says his name was, eh… Blackwood. Yep. Martin K. Blackwood. Here you go.”

Jon snatched it out of his hand and disappeared into his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you're enjoying!! please consider leaving a comment as it always brightens my day and inspires me to write more :))))


	5. in which a ribcage is crushed by a maserati

STATEMENT OF MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  
regarding strange dreams and a sense of being watched. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Hi! My name is Martin. It’s nice to meet you. It’s nice to be here, I suppose. Nice place, and all that. Never really thought I’d find myself here, it being a paranormal research institute and that. That’s not very me, I mean. I’ve always thought of myself as very normal, very regular, nothing odd ever happens to little old Martin! So I suppose it’s weird that I applied for a job here a few years ago. Did I mention that? I guess not. I even got to the interview stage, but it was my CV that tripped me up. Not enough experience. I work in a café, in case you were wondering, and I’m actually kind of good at it. I’m not used to being good at anything so I suppose you could say I love my job. Yeah. It’s relaxing, you know? Once I get into the routine of it, everything else goes away. It’s just me, my hands and my equipment, nothing to do but fulfil a familiar task, and then another, and then another.

I should get to the point. Sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous. So I was there, working away in the café as I would any other day, in the swing of my routine, cracking out orders. This one customer came along and naturally I looked up to check if the cappuccino was his. And then I stopped.   
Thing is, he had the deepest, most alive eyes I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how to explain it. The longer I looked, the more I could see in their depths. It’s like the layers of his iris were lit from within, not from without, and I thought that just for a moment I could see them swirling around like cream under the surface tension of black coffee. You know, when the cream looks golden through the liquid? It was so easy to get lost in them that I forgot where I was, which my co-workers weren’t too happy about. The man with the eyes came back a couple of times, one time I even had a sit-down chat with him on my break. He was reserved but oddly charming, and I looked forward to seeing him whenever he appeared. So far, so fine.

This is where things get really weird. I was in Tesco a while later before my shift, just buying milk and biscuits, when I noticed people staring outside. It’s the café guy, and get this - he’s being chased by a woman with a gun. I was floored. The woman would fire and just barely miss, and even though I had no clue what was happening I ran outside and knocked the gun lady out with my milk. It sounds insane, I know. My body just moved without me telling it to. Long story short, I take the guy back to my flat and patch up his wounds. I know a little first aid from school, so that helped. And the thing is… he gets me talking. Really talking. More than I’ve said in years, even. It just spilled up out of me like a river bursting its banks. I felt nauseous, but I couldn’t stop, and I told him everything about my life. Things I would never tell anyone I didn’t know. And he looked like it was delicious, like it was the most interesting thing anyone has ever said. I wanted to cry, but he looked so grateful when I finished that I felt almost proud. I was pathetically pleased that my sad tale made him happy. 

He told me his name was Jon, short for Jonathan. It was weird, but at this point I’d gotten past those eyes and actually looked at him and it was… nice. I liked having him around, even if the whole thing was bizarre. I knew there was something special, something different about him. I don’t know. It feels stupid saying it here. It’s ridiculous - a man called Jon who can make you tell him your secrets with his eyes that go on forever. I don’t even know if that goes under the purview of the Magnus Institute. Is it even paranormal? I don’t know. Anyway, I leave him in my flat to mend for a bit and I go to my shift. Lydia, my coworker, saw me getting shot at on the news and made me go back home almost straight away, telling me she’d cover my shift. I protested, but there was no denying her. So I go home, and pick up food on the way back for Jon, almost laughing at the idea of a handsome stranger in my flat. Plus, he’s wire thin, so I figured us watching a film and chatting and having snacks… maybe not the worst idea. I was excited, because I kind of liked him, surreal as it all was.

But as I’m approaching my flat I can hear voices from the inside. Jon speaking in his aloof tones and another voice, a woman’s, but… it was strange. Not right. I can’t describe it. If you made a ventriloquist’s doll into a person and had it speak, with its human-but-not-quite-human voice, that might be a bit closer to what I thought I heard. I go in, and everything is quiet. Nothing. It’s like Jon was never there. The door was locked from the outside, and I had the only keys. No windows with a place to climb from, no fire escape, no way for him to leave… but he was gone. He’d vanished in two seconds flat. It wasn’t possible. 

It’s not like I wasn’t disappointed, but maybe a little bit relieved? I don’t know how, but I could feel that strangeness coming off him in waves, like he was never supposed to exist. And me… I’m the opposite of that. I’m the exact product of my circumstances, and Jon was… he felt utterly alien, like nothing I’ve ever encountered. It’s embarrassing to say, and I only say it because I’m certain this will die in one of your case file boxes in a dusty office, but it was intoxicating. That’s the word. Intoxicating. And I didn’t know how I felt. I still don’t.

That’s not all. Ever since that day I’ve been tortured by dreams of my mum. I won’t go into details, but it was one of the things I told Jon about. I’m sitting there, holding her hand in the hospital, certain she doesn’t even want me there at the moment she dies. And then she’s dead, and even though she made me feel as alone as I had ever felt I found out that day that there were new, unplumbed depths of loneliness. True solitude. And Jon is always in the corner, in those dreams. Watching. Drinking it in. Relishing my pain. And even though it scares me - he scares me - I prefer those dreams to the ones where he’s gone. Stupid, isn’t it? So every night, I have those screaming nightmares and bolt awake, still able to hear the IV monitor flatline in the hospice. And it’s messed up, but I would rather see Jon in an awful traumatic nightmare than not see him at all. I still have them every night, even though it’s been weeks. 

But all that isn’t really why I’m here. Nothing so far has been paranormal. Weird, maybe, odder if you think about it for a moment, but not necessarily paranormal. No. The reason why I’m here happened last night. I was on my way back from a shift, exhausted, wanting nothing but dinner, Netflix and bed. It was a beautiful sunset last night, I don’t know if you saw it, but it was tinged with orange and red. I was typing some poetry ideas into my notes app, walking along, not really noticing where I was going, when it happened.

There was this… shift. It was almost imperceptible. The night began humming around me, soft at first, and then more insistent. I looked up. There was this figure ahead of me in the street, dressed in a dark coat and with both hands resting on a cane. He blocked my path entirely, staring straight at me, turning the air around him somehow deadened, vibrating with cold. His skin was dark black, his head bald, the whites of his eyes the whitest I had ever seen.   
“Who are you?” I asked, slowing to a stop. He radiated the same unknowable aura as Jon and I intuited that again, I was dealing with someone ... _other._ “I’m Oliver Banks,” he said, voice like velvet, “And you’re nobody from nothing.” It wasn’t said with the intent to hurt, not at all. He said it with such impassion and lack of intonation as I had never heard before. Not just emotionless, Banks seemed detached even from his own death. Because that was it, I realised - Oliver was dead, deader than anyone I had ever encountered, and he didn’t care, as though it were just an inconvenience. 

He terrified me, but he was beautiful, much in the way you appreciate a Maserati until its wheels are crushing your ribcage under their treads. He had the same unstoppable, impassive power veiled in an elegant casing. I felt sure I was going to die, but I didn’t care - not only did he strip from me my will to live, but with it my animal panicking fear of death. Images flashed in my head of rats in traps, still breathing, but with the glassy stare of a small-minded thing introduced to the impossibly infinite. He told me that I’ve interfered with the course of things by distracting the Archivist, and that candidly speaking... he was a little jealous. I played on the Archivist's mind rather a lot, or so Banks was told.

I spluttered, no idea what he was on about, and he chuckled. “Never mind. Despite myself, I’m interested to see how this plays out. The end result, however, is always the same.” He paused, eyes flashing. “You die, and your Archivist moves on. So I suppose I’m here to warn you. Stay away from Jonathan Sims.” When he said that, I could see them - oily black vines branching around him in every direction. Just for a moment, less than a heartbeat. He tapped his cane on the ground, winked at me, and walked away. The pressure holding me in place lifted, and I fell to my knees.

I’m sure you can imagine the rest - I went home, didn’t sleep a wink, cried just a little, and came here. I have no explanation for my visit from the being that calls itself Oliver Banks. I thought I’d tell you guys, but… to be honest, I have no idea what to do next. I get the sense I’ve been caught up in something without even noticing, but I have no idea what. If any of you can help me, you have my contact details. At the very least, it’s good to see the inside of this place. I may not have got that job, but it seems as though something mysterious is happening to me after all. Thanks to Jon. Whoever he - it - is.

I just hope I survive it.

STATEMENT ENDS.


	6. in which martin and jon actually have a conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey boys i hope you enjoy, tw for mild blood/gore. can y'all tell i'm a broke student in the UK yet? bc after this chapter i think it might be slightly obvious. lol. please consider dropping a comment as they get me thru the day no joke

Martin stepped out of the Magnus Institute, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Writing his whole sordid tale out on the official cream paper of the archives had been cathartic, and flirting with the handsome assistant had significantly brightened his mood. It was a beautiful afternoon to avoid thinking about Jonathan Sims and his elegant hands and his soft greying hair and his long-lashed, sad eyes. If creepy men were telling him, Martin, to whom nothing ever happened, to stay away from someone he sure as hell was going to do it. Plus, Jon knew where he lived and where he worked. If Jon wanted to see him, he would have visited before now. Martin had been rejected before, sure, but for some reason this stung more. Martin was going to Move On and he underlined and circled that in his head with a bright red mental marker. 

Jon had been ridiculously evasive about his workplace for a reason, and that could only mean something awful - drugs, or embezzling, or some other reason he had so many scars. Nothing like the Magnus Institute, Martin reflected, where nothing ever seemed to happen. The still, musty air of the place appealed to him and comforted him for reasons he couldn’t put a finger on. He wanted to swan in there, select a statement from the files, sit in a patch of sunlight and read to his heart’s content about all sorts of spooky nonsense. It was a shame, actually, that his CV had never been accepted there - he was sure a job with them would be much more relaxing than his role as a barista in a busy café. More highly paid, too.  
Ah well, he thought as he crossed the street, there was no point dwelling on what-ifs.

Distantly, above the roar of traffic on the Embankment junction, Martin thought he heard someone shouting his name. A familiar accent, maybe, the ‘r’ in the first syllable sounding more like a ‘h’. Curious, half-hopeful, he turned but a bus cut across his line of sight. He shook it off, certain he was hearing things, and hurried away down the pavement.

His pleasant sunlit glow faded on the Tube back to his flat. He was squished between impassive strangers absorbed in their phones, and as his own had died an hour or so ago he was stuck watching the stations pass, knees pressed together with discomfort. Overhead, the fluorescents flashed and swayed with the movement of the carriage. It seemed to him as though the stuttering dark between flickers of brightness was getting longer each time, the light taking more time to return whenever it winked out. The walls of the tunnels seemed to press in on him, the black encroaching until there was no difference between when he stared out sightlessly into nothing and when he squeezed his eyes shut. The fathomless pits that were Oliver Banks’s eyes roiled and writhed in the tenebrous fleeting shadows before the lamps sputtered to life and the next station coasted into view . 

Martin clutched his rucksack closer to his chest, watching the faces of his fellow passengers. They seemed unperturbed by what felt to him like crushing pressure, not bothered in the slightest by the sporadic overwhelming darkness. Was it just him? He briefly considered getting off at the next station, but when the Underground rolled to a stop he noticed something. The platform was completely empty. He checked his watch. 

It was rush hour, and the white tiled thoroughfare should have been teeming with workers jostling to get home, talking on phones and flicking pennies to the buskers tucked into the corridor margins. Martin’s mouth was dry with raw fear as the doors slid open onto nothing, the quiet beeping of the lock release the only sound cutting through a sepulchral silence. He somehow knew that to get off into that dead station would mean a fate worse than death, that some animal instinct had warned the rush hour commuters to avoid the station the same way seabirds knew to fly inland hours before a storm.  
Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. He was the only person looking around in confusion and growing unease. Everyone else stared glassy-eyed at a book or device, studiously avoiding his gaze.

The train juddered into motion and the doors slid shut, Martin’s chance at escape gone once more. He resigned himself to more grim interludes of crushing blackness, hoping that when the lights buzzed back on he’d still be there. The last thing he wanted was to be stolen away by something that crawled and snatched and swallowed in the dark while bystanders pretended he had never been sitting there at all.  
Nobody had spared him so much as a glance in what felt like hours - were these people even real? Or was he alone, surrounded by soulless facsimiles of a normal Tube car, designed to trick him into a false sense of security? 

The lights dimmed and he was plunged into shadow once more, the breath catching in his throat. He tried to make some sort of noise, to remind himself that he was real and he was there and alive and a _person_ , but his voicebox couldn’t summon the vibration necessary for so much as a whimper. 

He curled closer into his rucksack, wondering if this was it - the lights would blink on, his chair would be empty and that would be the end of Martin Blackwood. Would anyone miss him? Really miss him? Mike and Lydia would ask about him, question where he’d gone, but their lives would move on. If he vanished right now into the dark, he wasn’t so sure that after a month or two anyone would remember him past a passing remark. What a lonely thought. It was almost a relief to feel hot tears spill down his cheeks, just to know that he could still cry. The conviction that the darkness was going to devour him had overwhelmed him completely. Just fifteen minutes ago he’d been in the air and brightness but now he was a rat in a trap, suffocating in the airless compartment, eyes unable to adjust to the impenetrable pressing nothing. He couldn’t hear either, except for a dull roar and--  
“Martin?” a distant echoing cry, more like a memory. He ignored it. “ _Martin?_ ”

A whirr and slam from the end of the Tube carriage. The lights blinked back on. Martin stirred, eyes bleary and unfocused, tears crystallising on his chin. “Martin!”

Jon was standing at the end of the Tube carriage, having forced the door between compartments open. His clothes and hair were flapping in the howling gale generated by the Tube’s rapid movement through the flashing tunnels and his impossible eyes were fixed on Martin.  
He slammed the door again with some effort and stalked up the aisle, expression softening from determination to something Martin couldn’t read in his distress. “Thank God I found you in time. I’m so sorry, Martin. For- for everything. Are you all right?” He gripped an armrest for balance and crouched next to Martin’s seat, earnest concern in his voice. 

Martin wiped the tears from his face with numb fingers, fear turning to shock turning to shame. “N-not really.” He had meant to say _“I’m fine,”_ but again that twist in his gut had loosened the truth out of him.

Jon’s brows knitted together, his gaze scanning every inch of Martin, coming to rest on his white-knuckle grip on his rucksack. “I think it’s probably fair to say that I have some explaining to do.”  
“You think?!” Martin sniffed, eyes finally meeting Jon’s. The amber glow in them was stronger now. It was as though the thing that lived in Jon was exerting influence to bring Martin back from whatever brink he had teetered on, dragging him back from the edge of a cliff. The Tube rattled to a halt at the next station, this time filled with commuters. Jon shot a meaningful glance at Martin and they shouldered their way off, cleaving through the crowds. Martin had never been so relieved to see a mass of strangers in all their wonderful, distracted, bright-eyed, rude, brusque glory. He still felt pale and small, shrinking away from the harsh artificial lamps, following Jon as though he was a lifeline and Martin a drowning man.

And then they were out, blinking in the glare, and Jon was already striding away. Martin hurried after him, a thousand questions clamouring to be asked. 

“W-what happened back there? What _was_ that?” 

“Not here,” Jon hissed. “How far away is your flat?  
“About a twenty minutes’ walk.”  
“Right. Well, don’t ask me about anything… odd… until we get there. Hard to say who might be listening.”  
“Does that mean I can ask you about everything else while we walk?”  
Jon looked taken aback. “Er - I don’t see why not. I suppose you deserve to know whatever you wish. Ask away.”

“Right.” Now that he had free rein to ask what he wanted, Martin’s mind went blank. “Is your name really Jonathan Sims?”  
“Yes. I do prefer Jon, though.”  
“Where are you from?”  
“Bournemouth, though it’s been a long time since I was back.”  
“How old are you?”  
“Heavens, Martin, weren’t you ever told not to ask a lady her age?”  
“35?”  
“I’m not answering that.”  
“But you’re greying!”  
“What’s the next question?”  
That tug again. “Where do you work?”  
“Classified. Next question.”  
“Why classified?”  
“ _Because_ , Martin, every time I tell you something to do with that place you get more and more involved! You saw what happened today. Getting too close to me is dangerous.”  
“Why?”  
“Later.”  
“Fine. What do you do for fun?”  
“Fun?”  
“You know, enjoyment, recreation-”  
“Yes, I know, I know,” Jon snapped. “I will sometimes… read fiction. And watch… documentaries.”  
“Wow, my heart is pounding,” commented Martin drily. “Stop before I faint with excitement.”  
“Shut up. Truth is, most of my time is taken up with work.”  
“Fair enough. Next question: favourite food?”

Jon considered at length, chewing his lower lip. Martin got the impression that food wasn’t something he thought about often, at least from the faraway look in his eyes. 

“Hmmm. Good one. Well, one time I was in Rome as a student with some friends. Don’t look at me like that - I did actually have friends. We got on quite well, as I recall. On the last night of our trip we managed, at long last, to get a booking in this tiny restaurant on the Via di Santa Martino Ai Monti. A ramshackle little place, but packed to the rafters. You see, they had a house special, a pasta called amatriciana, which they mixed while still hot in a round of cheese…”

Martin lost focus then and just watched Jon talk. On the rare occasion that he liked what he was speaking about, it was as though years of worry and stress lifted from his shoulders. He had a remarkably expressive face, long and aquiline as it was, and could get more animated with his gestures than Martin could have expected. His impression of a haughty Italian waiter was spot on and despite his lingering fear Martin found himself almost doubled over with laughter as they walked. Jon chuckled once or twice, peering over at Martin as though amazed he was so obviously enjoying himself.

“So pasta, then,” snorted Martin, his mirth under control now, “Would that be your death row meal?”  
“My death row meal,” Jon mused. “Yes, I suppose so. With a glass of Sauvignon and some poppy seed bread. What about you?”  
“Shepherd’s pie,” Martin said immediately, “With garlic bread and a cup of tea, and a brownie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.”  
“Interesting. Traditional tastes - I’d never have gone for shepherd’s pie.”  
“Well there’s no need to be snotty about it,” grinned Martin, elbowing him. “I happen to also love a good hot curry.”  
“Oh yeah?” Jon asked, perking up. “Are there any good places near yours? We could pick dinner up on the way back.”

Blood rushed to Martin’s face at the casual intimacy of it.It felt so natural to grab dinner on the way back to his flat, and clearly Jon had thought so too, because his ears had turned magenta. How had they fallen into step so fast? Would it last? Any traces of Martin’s ordeal on the Tube had faded from his mind, replaced with Jon’s self-conscious laugh and the way he knotted his fingers together when he was nervous. He seemed gentler around Martin now, less wary and certainly less pompous. It filled Martin with a reckless sort of joy.

“I-er- that-”  
“Forget I said anything,” Jon blurted, rubbing the back of his neck “It was-”  
“No. No. I’d--”  
“Silly suggestion really, I barely--”  
“I’d love to, Jon.”  
“Oh. Alright, then.”  
“Yep.”  
“Lovely.”  
“There’s a wonderful Indian place around the corner-”  
“Excellent. I’m happy to pay-”  
“I got it.”  
They smiled at each other. Martin’s entire head felt aflame, as though all the blood in his body had chosen now to migrate to his cheeks and decorate his neck with blotches. Maybe it was the lighting, but he could have sworn Jon looked distinctly pink too.  
They kept walking, each absorbed in their thoughts for a moment.

“Are you--” began Martin.  
“Do you--” began Jon.  
They both stopped, then Martin gestured for Jon to go first.  
“Right. Well here’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.” He looked abashed, his eyes darting away. “Are you… are you seeing anyone?”

CLANG!  
Martin’s world became chaos and pain for a dizzying moment, but he managed to remain standing. Once his vision cleared the cause became obvious. He’d walked straight into a pole.

“Christ! Martin - are you all right?”

Martin began to laugh, fingers clamped on the bridge of his nose, which was spurting blood. Jon’s stricken face swam into view, hands producing tissues from seemingly nowhere. Martin pressed them to his nostrils, feeling the beginnings of a bruise on his forehead. Jon looked stunned, luminous eyes fixed on his companion, hands floating uselessly in the air.  
“Wh- How did you not see that coming? Your nose. It’s not broken, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin mumbled, fighting the instinct to tip his head back. Stinging tears were blurring his vision again and he grinned sheepishly over at Jon, face aflame with embarrassment.  
Jon started to laugh, softly at first but then harder and harder until he was sagging at the knees. Between snorts he choked “ _Really,_ Martin, you managed to take out a killer with milk, and you escaped that Tube, but got brained by a _pole_?”

Jon’s helpless laughter was the most beautiful thing Martin had ever heard. They started to walk, slowly, both of them tortured by fits of mirth, not even sure why it was so funny anymore but unable to stop. Jon had to attempt to lead Martin through the streets with a guiding hand on his arm as Martin was focused on shoving tissue up his nose, crying with laughter. The problem was, Jon had no clue where they were going and they stumbled around for ten minutes like brainless fools, sporadically breaking into hyena cackles.

“No, actually,” Martin breathed, sobering up. “To answer your question.”  
“Ah. Right. Of course.” Jon’s eyes were scouring anywhere that wasn’t Martin.  
“And you?”  
“Well. There was this girl, Georgie, for a while - but that was years ago-”  
Martin’s heart sank. “I see.”  
Jon’s gaze caught his and he seemed half about to say something else, to explain further, but apparently thought better of it. “This seems like as good a place as any,” he said instead, indicating an Indian takeaway as they approached.  
“Sure, sure,” replied Martin, all traces of humour gone.  
The man at the till cast Martin an odd look, taking in the crusted blood smeared over his face. Martin gave him a polite little nod.

Their orders taken, Jon and Martin stood quietly in the cool blue tile of the takeaway. Martin was pressing a can of Fanta to the bridge of his nose.  
“I live just round the corner,” Martin offered, more to break the silence than anything else. “Have you a flat in the city?”  
Jon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyeline at an oblique slant to Martin’s own. “I do. It’s tiny, and cold, and packed with books and files, but kept meticulously clean. It’s not like yours-”  
“Messy?”  
“I was going to say pleasant. Congenial, even.” Jon’s lip curled. He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more artfully dishevelled. “I worry I didn’t properly thank you for saving my life that time. I’m sorry if I got blood on your carpet.”  
“You repaid the favour today. I seriously thought I was going to die in there.”  
“Touché, I suppose,” Jon grinned.

The food arrived and they stepped back out into the warm dusk, gripping a brown paper bag each. Martin spent the companionable silence on the route back to his flat contemplating his burning questions, deciding which to ask first. 

“I can ask anything? Except the name of your workplace?” he queried suddenly, and Jon nodded. “And you’ll answer honestly?” Another nod.

Before long they had buzzed into the building and were standing in the elevator up to his floor. It felt a very different scene from the first time. Now Martin was the bloodied one instead of Jon, and rather than standing warily apart from each other they now stood almost shoulder to shoulder. It was a nice feeling, he thought, knowing that Jon wasn’t just going to vanish again. Or at least, hoping so.

Jon looked on as Martin fumbled with his keys again and opened his door into the gloom of his flat. As soon as the door was shut behind them Martin was asking questions, grabbing plates and cutlery as he spoke.  
“How did you vanish last time you were here? I heard your voice but when I came in you were gone. The flat was locked from the outside, it’s not possible for you to have left normally.”  
“I know someone. Her name is Helen Richardson, and she’s able to appear anywhere through a yellow door. She’s incredibly annoying, and she decided that I’d faffed around with you for long enough already. You should keep an eye out for her. If you see a yellow door just run in the other direction.”  
Martin tried to process that, and failed. “She can appear anywhere?”  
Jon shrugged. “I think so, yes.”

“...Right. Next question: how did you find me in the Tube? And what was that… darkness?”  
He carried the food over to Jon and laid a plate in his lap. Self-consciously, he also put a bottle of white wine on the coffee table with two glasses.  
Jon thanked him absently and sighed. “Because you saved me that day, certain… powers have taken an interest in you. You’re untouched by any one of them, so they want to corrupt and harm you in order to get to me. It’s honestly rare to be completely unsullied by any of the dread powers, which makes you… fascinating to them. They want to feed off your terror.”

Martin stared at him blankly. Jon palpated his temples, trying to clear his thoughts.  
“I’m not explaining this well. Fine. I’ll start with a question: What is your worst fear?”

A crackle of static made the air hum around Martin. “I would say dying alone, except that’s not it. Not really. I think my worst fear is living alone - being forgotten by everyone you ever loved, there being absolutely no difference to anyone whether you’re alive or dead.” He gasped, feeling a gap in his chest where it felt like the words had been ripped out. “Ow.”

“Sorry. So that would be seen as the fear of being alone, which is felt by millions of people all the time. Now imagine that that fear is… sentient. It puts people in situations that evoke dread and feed on it. There are hundreds of fears, but they can be sorted more or less discretely into fourteen distinct entities. What you faced today was a manifestation of the fear of darkness. If I hadn’t made it there I’m still not sure what might have happened.”

“Hmm.” said Martin. “I suppose that makes sense.”  
“ _Really?_ ”  
“Yeah. I mean. I’ve already experienced the impossible. I know there’s more going on than most people suspect. And I’ve read a bit of Lovecraft - would you consider these horrors to be of the eldritch persuasion?”  
“I… I suppose I would, yes.”  
“You say there are fourteen? So what have we got… fear of being alone and forgotten, fear of the dark…?”  
“The Lonely and the Dark, we call them. The Dark is sometimes called The People's Church of the Divine Host.”  
“Fancy. Nice to know the delusions of grandeur extend to vague sentient fears.” Martin grabbed a pen and jotted them down as Jon spoke.

“Precisely. Then there’s the Corruption - fear of disease and insects. The Desolation - fear of loss, destruction, fire, that sort of thing. The Vast - the fear of heights and wide open spaces. The Buried, its opposite - claustrophobia, tight spaces and such. The Flesh - the fear of mutilation or being eaten. Weird one, that.”  
Martin nodded, scribbling away.  
“You seem oddly all right with all this,” Jon said, perplexed. Martin waved at him to continue, spooning lamb daal into his mouth as he wrote.  
“Er. Yes. And then there’s another animal fear - the Hunt. Our trigger happy friend, who you dealt with so effectively, is affiliated with the Hunt. It’s the fear of being chased. Self-explanatory, really.”  
“Affiliated with?” Martin interrupted, looking up.  
“The fears choose some people, in a way, imbuing them with supernatural gifts and immunity from the influence of other fears. In return, they spread that fear to feed their god.”  
“Interesting. What sort of gifts?”  
“The ability to burn things and generate fire, the ability to manifest potals, like Helen’s doors, the ability to generate darkness. All sorts. It varies between entities. They usually come at the price of one’s humanity.”  
Martin digested this while chewing on more daal, thinking it through. “Okay. Is there, by any chance, someone affiliated with a fear of death?”

“The fear of death we call the End. And yes, the avatar of the End is called Oliver Banks.”  
The recognition must have shown on his face, because Jon leaned forward. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.  
“I left a statement today at that crumbling old place on the Thames, the Magnus Institute. I wouldn’t have, ordinarily, but an aunt of mine went once and said it helped. You’ve probably heard of it, considering how much you dabble in spookiness.”  
“Yeah,” answered Jon. “I’ve heard of it.”  
“Anyway, I told them about Oliver Banks. He showed up out of nowhere, scared the living daylights out of me, and told me to stay away from you.”  
“Stupid flirt,” Jon grumbled. “He’s right, of course, but I don’t like his methods.”  
“You know him?”  
“We’ve met. Sort of. Anyway, we’re getting off topic.”

Martin gave him a measured stare, then returned to his list. “Next up is the Spiral. That’s Helen Richardson’s fear. It’s the fear of madness, of your perceptions being misguided and your senses lying to you. I hate that one. Similar to it is the Stranger, more or less the fear of the unknown. It’s worse, even, than the Spiral, because everyone affiliated with it was an ass. After that is the Slaughter, the fear of war and wholesale carnage, that one was big in the first half of the 20th century. It’s one of the quieter fears these days, though. Then there’s the Web. It’s the fear of being manipulated, of some grand scheme that you can’t see. Paranoia. Conspiracy theorists fall prey to it all the time.”

“I see. And the last one?”

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well. That would… er… that would be the Eye. The fear of being watched, the fear of scrutiny and judgement.”

“That’s you, then, I assume.”

“What makes you say that?”

Martin laughed humorlessly. “Oh, nothing much, Jon, just _everything about you?_ Have you _seen_ your eyes? And you can’t think I haven’t noticed that every single time you ask me a question I have to answer honestly, no matter what I actually want to say.” He ate more daal, waving his fork in triumph. “So you’re affiliated with the Eye? Do you have any other powers? Are you still human?”

Jon blinked, then reached for the white wine. “Very perceptive of you, Martin.” He poured a glass and took a swig. “I have some other, less effective abilities. Sometimes if I want to know something the knowledge is just there without me even forming the thought. When I ask people to tell me their story, they tell me in the way that makes the most narrative sense, even if they barely remember the incident themselves. It’s automatic. But no, I am no longer human, and due to that I can survive without food, instead sustaining myself on the fears of others.”

Martin regarded him with wide eyes. “So that’s how you found me on the Tube. Are you bad?” he asked at length. “Do you hurt people?”  
Jon drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I hope you can trust me when I say that I do my utmost not to.”

Martin nodded. Then, “Are you going to eat that?” He gestured at Jon’s food. “What with the whole surviving-only-on-fear thing.”  
Jon spluttered, then picked up his fork and began to eat. “That’s the gist of it,” he said between mouthfuls. “Any further questions?”  
“Is anyone else going to come after me?” asked Martin. Jon took a look at him then, taking in the bloodied nose and slowly forming black eyes. A pang of guilt shot through him and he lowered his gaze.  
“I’m so sorry to have put you in danger, Martin. None of it was my intent.”  
“Wrong place at the wrong time?” interjected Martin, grinning.  
“I suppose. And to answer your question - I don’t know. They could, but if I stick by you it’s less likely. I - I stayed away from you in the weeks after the milk incident in the hopes you would be left alone. It seems, however, that the damage had already been done. I’m sorry.”

“Then just tell me where you work!” Martin cried. “I’m already involved! What’s the point of telling me almost everything but keeping some details to yourself?”  
“ _Because,_ Martin, if I tell you that then there really will be no going back, and all those weeks staying away from you will have been for nothing!” Jon retorted. “I just want to make sure you’re safe!”  
Martin relented, his expression softening. “Fine. Fine. No, you’re right. It can’t be easy, when these _fears_ and- and _avatars_ are your whole life. I’m sorry.”  
“I’m sorry, too,” said Jon again. “I don’t regret meeting you, but I wish dragging you into my mess could have been avoided.”  
“I’m sorry for getting coffee all over your hand,” Martin smiled.

“That’s quite all right. Just another scar to add to the list.”

“Can you tell me about them?” Martin inquired, pouring himself a glass of wine.  
“Each one?” asked Jon, startled. “They all have quite a story.”  
“I’m interested!” Martin protested. “Plus,” he said, smiling, waving a hand at the flat, at the wine, “We have all evening.”

*

They spoke for hours. Jon was always mindful to avoid revealing too much, and took care not to ask Martin any direct questions. It was almost midnight before Jon stood with awkward urgency, confessing it was getting late and he had statements to get through.

“This is my number,” he said, scrawling digits onto a scrap of paper. “If anything is the slightest bit… weird, give me a call. I’ll find you.”  
Martin nodded, ears pink. “T-thank you, Jon. I appreciate that.” He tucked the paper in his pocket. He tidied the plates and glasses while Jon shrugged his coat on, both of them tired and happy and mellow. Chatting easily about everyday things, Martin walked Jon down to the front doors of his flat building. It was a warm, blustery night, and Jon’s hair ruffled over his forehead in the breeze.  
“Thanks again for saving me earlier. And… and for explaining everything to me. I feel better with some idea of what’s really going on.”

“Of course. It’s my fault you’ve been dragged into the whole sordid shambles anyway, so it’s the least I could do. And thank you for a lovely evening.”

Martin smiled and, with the slightest hint of awkwardness, pulled Jon in for what he hoped was a friendly hug. He let go and stepped back, mumbling a joke or sarcastic comment, but stopped when he saw Jon’s face. Jon looked like he had just won the lottery - eyes wide and unfocused, an uncertain, incredulous smile playing about his lips. Unsure what it meant, Martin tangled his hands in the folds of his soft jumper and retreated into the light of the foyer. “Will I see you again? Soon?” he asked.  
Jon ran a hand through his hair, fixed Martin in the lamplike force of his gaze and smiled with a gentle, mild delight.  
“Yes, Martin. I hope so.”  
And with that he was gone, stalking off into the night.

*

Later, Martin checked his phone and discovered a new email in his inbox.


	7. in which elias is a thot to the nth degree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey hey! thank you so much to anyone who has commented i love you all :))) enjoy!

The following days were pleasant to an unusual degree for Jon. 

Tim and Sasha were still baffled by the change in his demeanour, peering curiously after him when he went whistling down the corridors. On Thursday he bought a cardboard tray of cappuccinos from Martin’s café for everyone in the office, a move which was met with suspicion and fear. 

“Did you put asbestos in these?” Melanie demanded, sniffing hers. “Strychnine?”  
Jon laughed, which made the assistants even more alarmed. “No, Melanie, I did not poison your coffee.” He swept along with jovial grace, making for his office.  
“Cyanide?” Melanie called after him. “Not even a little bit of antifreeze? No?”

Smiling, Jon shut the door, flopped into his desk chair and reached for the first statement of the day.

“Seriously, guys,” said Tim, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. “What do you think’s happened? Did he find Jesus or something?”  
“Maybe he finally managed to file and organise everything according to his ridiculous standards and now he can die happy,” Basira offered.  
“No way,” Sasha cut in, having downed her coffee. “I think he fancies someone.”  
“ _No_ ,” Tim breathed, incredulous. “Really?”  
Sasha’s eyes were twinkling. “I have never seen that man do anything with his hair. I was beginning to think he was breeding moths in there but did you _see_ him yesterday? I know Brylcreem when I see it.”  
Melanie and Basira exchanged a nervous glance. “Not for anyone in the office, surely?”  
“We’d have noticed if he did,” Tim was posing like Rodin’s Thinker, mulling it over. “You two should have seen him when he first met Elias. He was like a deer in the headlights. Then, of course, Elias started talking.”  
Sasha snorted, adjusting her round glasses. “Elias does have a way of - what’s the opposite of endearing? - himself to new acquaintances.”

“How to lose friends and alienate people,” Basira smirked. “They’re both pretty good at it, to be fair.”

“Yeah, but Elias is a massive dickhead on purpose, while Jon does it unconsciously and by accident.” Melanie said, to gales of laughter from Tim. “It’s almost a talent.”

“So who could it be?” pondered Basira, frowning. “Who could possibly hold Jon’s attention like that? I always assumed that to him other people are just objects, or… or walking statements, or something.”

“I bet he’d be into someone really punk and edgy!” Tim exclaimed, clearly visualising it, hands positioned like a photographer sizing up a shot. “All tattoos and leather jackets and piercings.”

“No way,” refuted Melanie, shrugging surreptitiously out of her own leather jacket. “I know for a _fact_ that he once dated my friend Georgie, and she’s the soft, cosy type. No doubt about it - whoever’s got Jon all hot and bothered is someone who bakes blueberry muffins and reads monthly sewing pattern magazines.”  
“You’re both full of shit!” Sasha countered. “Jon wouldn’t even notice someone who wasn’t even more highbrow and academic than he was. He’s probably sneaking out for quickies with some Oxford associate professor, swapping argyle sweater vests and laughing at badly written dissertations.”  
This was met with widespread assent. 

“So a punk Oxbridge lecturer who bakes in their free time.” Tim grinned. “Interesting match for our dear spooky boss. Well, I say we make the most of Jon’s benevolent humour. Office party, anyone?”

“W-what would Elias say?” Melanie spluttered, still not used to their superior’s complete lack of interest in what they did.

“Very little, I imagine,” replied Jon, striding past officiously, dropping the statement on Tim’s desk. Everyone jumped about a foot into the air. “File, this for me, would you, Tim? And for the love of God _stop_ speculating about a romantic attachment that _does not exist._ It’s highly unprofessional.”

He disappeared into Archive artefact storage room, closing the door behind him. Sasha clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.  
“Sounds like we hit a little close to home,” Tim said, raising his eyebrows.

Just then Elias walked in.  
There was something extremely smug about the set of his shoulders, the bitten-back smirk on his face. Everyone sat up straight, pretending to look busy. It was quite a scramble for Melanie, who had stretched out languidly with her Docs resting on the back of Tim’s office chair. She almost tipped back onto the floor as she groped her way back to her seat, brushing her hair out of her face with what little dignity she had left.

“Hi, all. Just a quick announcement for today,” said Elias, casting Melanie a wilting glance. “As some of you may know, I’ve been searching for a new Archival assistant for some time. You all manage to be spectacularly useless, to no one’s surprise, so I went through some old CVs and found someone who will be a good fit. Keep you all in line, as it were. He’ll be arriving for about twelve, so please do your best to show him the ropes and make him feel welcome.”

“Will do, boss,” said Tim drily. “Should we also tell him about the high risk of death, constant terror, grievous bodily harm and frequent manipulation he’ll experience here, or will we leave that to you?”

Elias gave him a tight-lipped smile. “That will be all.” 

He bowed out and returned to his office, just as Jon came back in. 

“Sasha, did you ever learn anything about Item 64B13-G/7?” he asked, nose in his notes, and looked up when he got no reply. The pale faces of everyone in the office looked back, unsure what to say.  
“What is it?”

“Elias says he’s bringing in a new assistant,” Basira muttered. Jon blanched.  
“Shit. Who?” Jon looked suddenly weary.  
“No clue! He’ll be here around twelve, we’re told.”  
“...Right. Right.” The silence was uncomfortable, as the group felt the strings of manipulation around them, affecting everything they did. What could Elias possibly have in mind? Who was he hiring? For what possible purpose would their secretive boss drag someone else into the only workplace it was physically impossible to quit?

Aside from hurling himself into Elias’s office and demanding answers (of which he knew very well he would get none), there was nothing Jon could do. So he gave a wan smile to his solemn assistants and vanished once more into his office.  
Angry, Melanie got up and left with Basira trailing hurriedly in her wake. Tim and Sasha exchanged wordless glances and buried themselves in their work, the morning’s exuberant atmosphere well and truly gone.

Jon tried his hardest to focus on his statement, he really did.  
Usually as soon as he picked one up the familiar compulsion took hold and he would read as though he were a mouthpiece for someone else. Which, of course, he was. Was he talking, or was the Eye possessing him until the statement was done?  
After reading a statement he would sometimes stare in the mirror in the staff toilet, wondering if his features had changed in some way. People tended to look at him in shock and fear when he invoked the power of the Eye - did he look different when he did it? 

Did - God forbid - his eyes glow? Or worse, perhaps he didn’t change physically at all, and people stared because they finally got a glimpse of the roiling monster so well hidden inside him. These thoughts were usually interrupted by Tim walking into the men’s toilet and giving him a weird look, as he was inches away from the mirror pulling his lower eyelids down and frowning.

This morning, however, he hadn’t a hope. The thought of Elias hiring some poor sod to be shoved around and attacked by monsters preyed on his mind, filling him with dread and suspicion. What fresh hell had Elias invented to make everyone even more trapped and afraid than they already were?  
Jon decided to try and tell the new guy everything as soon as he walked in the door, rather than leave him blind and deaf to his fate. He also decided to be as friendly as possible. God knows the unfortunate fool was going to have enough to deal with.

Plus, and this was what he had really been trying to avoid dwelling on, there was the question of Martin. The arrangement they had made - of Martin calling Jon if another avatar attacked him - unnerved him. Sure, it had been exciting in a childish way to give someone his number, but now he had the problem of checking his phone every four seconds. 

That wasn’t an exaggeration. Jon kept feeling it buzz in his back pocket only to fumble for it, panicking, miss, grab it, drop it, scramble to catch it, bring it breathlessly to his ear - only to realise there had been no call. It was highly undignified. It had been a long time since he was this skittish. So now he sat there at his desk, staring at the written statement, tape recorder at the ready.  
But - and this was the strange part - no compulsion came. He felt no urge to read it, nothing calling him towards the fear. And this was definitely a real statement, he knew that instinctively. He felt, for the first time in several years, complete apathy towards a story of one of the dread powers. 

It just felt as though there were more important things.

The clock was inching towards twelve o’clock now, and Jon decided he didn’t want to be here. It was new to him, this new hope kindling in him, but he wanted to take his lunch break early and go see Martin in the café. He realised it might actually be as simple as that - he desired to leave the Institute to see Martin, and he would. So he grabbed his coat, said a brief note to his assistants and left, in higher spirits than he had been in a while. 

This new development interested him. He felt hungry for once, not the strained need for another alarming statement, but properly hungry. He wanted to take Martin out for lunch somewhere, maybe one of the places he’d frequented when he started in the Archives. There was one on Elystan Street he particularly liked…  
He caught himself and began to consider the change in him in a real capacity. He wasn’t subject to the desperate hunger to read a statement. He was lighter and happier than he had been in years. For once, the feeling of information pushing its way into his head was gone. It was as though the growing influence of the Eye in him had stopped or diminished, and he didn’t know why or for how long.

It was impossible, of course, but it almost (and it was strange and sad and impossibly optimistic even to theorise it to himself) felt as though Martin was his bridge back to humanity. Martin was so uninvolved, so _normal,_ that Jon imagined what little human he had left in him clawing its way back to the surface in response.  
It seemed irresponsible to drop the burden placed on him by the Institute, to hope for normalcy again after grimly resigning himself to whatever was to come, but he wanted it so badly. Maybe he didn’t have to die like Gertrude after a life spent alone, foiling ritual after ritual, using up his own life to save others.  
What if Martin was a way out? 

What if Martin could save him?

*

“Excuse me, what was your name again?”

“Martin Blackwood.”

“Ah! Martin. Of course. Well, Martin,” said his new employer with a grandiose sweep of the arm, “Welcome to your new role in this esteemed establishment. I think you’ll enjoy your time here as much as we’ll love having you.”

“Thank you! I’m - I’m excited to get started. Where… where should I start?”

“I’ll have our group of assistants show you the ropes,” the man smiled, his grin sharp and malevolent. “I’m sure you’ll have _lots_ to talk about.”

*

“Martin?” asked the female barista (Lydia, her name-tag read). 

“Yes, his shift would usually have begun by now.”  
“Didn’t he tell you?” Jon’s stomach dropped. “He quit yesterday. Didn’t give much of an explanation, just said that he’d found another gig. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it, he talked about you constantly.”

The bell jingled as Jon left, crestfallen.  
He brought out his phone to call Martin, then realised he didn’t have his number. Why would Martin quit? He loved his job, had said so several times. Jon couldn’t sort his thoughts properly, couldn’t arrange them into a Question. “Cop yourself on,” he told himself aloud, shouldering his way through the crowds of passers-by. “Don’t be _stupid,_ Jon.” 

He was annoyed at himself for assuming Martin would care about Jon enough to tell him little things like quitting his job. After all, what was Jon to Martin? Someone who had blown into his life on a whim and fucked it up colossally. He’d been presumptuous to think he was anything more than a burden to Martin.

Still, the more he scolded himself for being stupid, the colder and greyer the streets around him got.

He made it back to the Archive, having enjoyed the walk at least, and headed back to his office. Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t see who the assistants were talking to, and the stranger didn’t see him. Jon slammed his door, settled down at his desk and began to read the statement. Then another. And another. More than he would usually have done in a shift, as he preferred to stick to just enough to keep him alive or give him the information he needed.  
As the afternoon wore on, Tim poked his head around Jon’s door.

“Boss,” he said, “The new assistant has arrived, he’s very nice, He actually left a statement here a while ago. Anyway, we were wondering if you could explain some things to him?”

“Later,” Jon replied, trying to look more involved in his work than he actually was, “I’m reading statements and would like some quiet.”

“You got it,” Tim said, nonplussed at Jon’s dark mood. “Well, his orientation day, so to speak, is almost over so let us know. For now I’ve palmed him off on Sasha.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Jon’s manner was brusque. Tim was about to close the door after himself when Jon stopped him. “Wait. What did you say his name was?”

“Ehh…Oh god,” Tim’s face went blank. “M...m… I want to say Michael?”

“Not another Michael,” groaned Jon. “Is everyone called Michael?”

“No, no scratch that. Mmm… Marcel. Yep. That’s it. Definitely Marcel.”

“Is he French?” 

“Could be. Honestly, he’s kind of a forgettable fellow. Are you sure you don’t want me to bring him in?” 

“No, no, I’ll deal with him later. Thanks, Tim.”

Tim nodded and shut the door. Again, Jon was left only with the ticking of the clock on the back wall and the spinning wheels of the tape recorder. 

He recorded one more statement, made his final comments, stretched and decided to head to the break room to make tea. The new assistant never did come to see him, and as it was growing late Jon figured he had gone home. He loved the Archives when everyone had left, all growing shadows and stagnating silence. Orange squares of light were flooding in the windows from the city streets, amplifying the liminal feel of the place. 

He made it to the break room kitchen, turned on the lights and slapped on the kettle. Rubbing his neck, he settled against the counter and waited, eyes unfocused. His mind strayed, as it so often did, once more to Martin. Rather than puzzle over the day’s events, he instead envisioned Martin’s soft mass of curly demarera-coloured hair. Thumbing his lower lip, Jon imagined running his hands through it, sitting with his knees at the backs of Martin’s shoulders, caressing the nape of Martin’s freckled neck.

It was suddenly too much for him and his mind skittered backwards, the image gone like smoke in a breeze. His face flamed and he realised something he hadn’t noticed - his phone was buzzing in his back pocket. He reached for it, fumbled, snatched it out of the air and answered the call.  
“Hello?” he rasped.  
“ _Jon?_ ” came Martin’s tinny voice on the other side. “ _It’s Martin. How - How are you?_ ”

“Oh - ah - Martin,” Jon did his best to sound cool and unconcerned. “I’m fine. I’m well. How are you?”

“ _I’m good. I’m not in any danger, or anything, I just… I wanted to let you know that I found a new job_.”  
“Did you now?” Jon could hear footsteps approaching the breakroom, Sasha or Basira, probably. His attention was laser focused on what he was hearing. “Where?”

The breakroom door opened. Martin walked in, phone to his ear, and expression of absolute shock dawning on his face. The blood drained from Jon’s skull. “ _Martin?!_ ” he breathed, phone still at his mouth. “ _Jon?!_ ” Martin’s voice echoed around the kitchen as well as through the phone.

“What are you doing here?” they said simultaneously. Jon inspected Martin, taking in the shirt he wore under his knit jumper, the fancy slacks and uncomfortable-looking brown shoes. The pieces slotted together in his mind at last.

“You-” Martin’s brows knitted together, his hands shaking, “ _This is where you work_?”

“Elias hired _you_ ,” Jon said, his voice almost a whisper, his eyes wide.  
“You’re the new assistant. Oh, Martin.”

“What?” Martin asked, seeing the despair and horror on Jon’s face. “Why is that so bad?” 

Jon didn’t answer, leaning hard on the counter for support, his knuckles white.

Martin’s face was pale and scared now.  
“Jon?”


	8. in which... angst and mutual pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey! sorry for the delay guys. my injured wrist healed, and once i was able to draw again that's all i wanted to do. i've made lots of TMA and JonMartin fanart if you'd like to check it out at bethfuller.tumblr.com!  
> aside from that, thank you all to the lovely commenters who have seriously given me the patience to actually keep going with this fic. i'm awful for abandoning ideas but your continuing support is really getting me through the tougher paragraphs!! Rest assured I have an exciting finish in store :))  
> I hope you enjoy!!

The email had been brief and to the point. 

“Dear Mr Blackwood,” it read, “It has come to my attention that you recently left a statement with us here at the Magnus Institute. After perusing it with some interest, I noted that you had dropped in a CV to us some years ago - our employee files are meticulous so it was no ordeal to find your application. Having reviewed your case, I am of the opinion that you would be an excellent addition to the Institute as an archival assistant. No relevant experience is strictly necessary, as in your statement you showed the resourcefulness and intelligence we value. 

Please email back with your response. If yes, you can start on Wednesday of next week. We look forward to having you.  
Regards,  
E. Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute.

Martin lay back on his soft double bed, head in a whirl. First Jon coming back into his life, now this? Why did it feel as though destiny was yanking him along a certain path backwards, unable to see into the future and blindly stumbling from moment to moment? Was there some greater plan he was unaware of? It all felt as though planets were rotating, shifting through the firmament, coming into alignment in a pattern too dim for him to make out. 

He stared up at his ceiling as he had so often done lately and thought of Jon. Martin had no earthly idea what Jon would think of his new prospective career - would he appreciate Martin’s upgrade from the service industry to academia? Would he see Martin as more of an equal?

In his mind Martin saw himself telling Jon he’d found a new job, one with a much higher pay grade, and that he could afford a flat big enough for them to move in together.  
He imagined Jon hugging him with joy, flying into his arms and letting Martin hold him close. They would move Jon out of his cramped, austere flat, packing things into boxes on the floor, Jon with dust in his hair and his sleeves rolled up. He would raise his eyebrow good-naturedly as Martin made fun of his LP collection and they would touch casually, Jon’s hand lingering on Martin’s shoulder or on his waist. They would make the bed together and fall onto it and Martin would comb his hand absently through Jon’s tightly curled helmet of dark hair while he read. They could cuddle and cook together and watch spooky films nestled into each other’s arms… and… and…

Face flaming, Martin rolled over and emailed Mr Bouchard his response.

Wednesday rolled around, and Martin turned up on the steps of the Magnus Institute at 12pm sharp, wearing new trousers, fancy shoes, his best shirt, a cable-knit vest and his fluffy parka. 

He had said a tearful farewell to Lydia and Mike, telling them they could come round to his for wine anytime they liked, and quit the café. It had been a wrench, honestly, as he knew the place better than he knew himself, but it was time to leave. He would swap making coffee for parsing paranormal statements, jet setting around the world to do research, maybe even writing academic papers. No more was he name tag Martin, happy to help, wiping tables and rinsing portafilters. Now he was M.K. Blackwood, archival assistant in the Magnus Institute, keeping the night terrors at bay from the people of Britain. He smiled to himself, trying to pretend his stomach wasn’t roiling like a queasy python, and walked in.

“Hi!” said the pretty ginger receptionist. “Martin, isn’t it? You’re new?”  
“Yes, that’s me!” Martin breezed, running a trembling hand through his curls. “What was your name again, sorry?”  
“Rosie!” she stood and extended her hand. “I don’t work in the archives, but feel free to pop down for a chat on your break. The archivists are a secretive lot and I need the insider information,” she laughed, making Martin feel immediately at ease. He liked a Yorkshire accent. 

“Will do!” he replied, probably too effusively. “I’ll be sure to harass you for anything I’m too scared to ask the boss.”  
“Elias? He seems scary, but I have a theory he’s a big old softie. Same goes for Jon - always rushing around looking busy or stressed, but if you take the time to chat to him he’s lovely. You’ll get on great!”  
“Jon?” Martin asked, startled by the name.  
“Yeah, the head archivist. Bit of a tosser at first, but he’ll ease up. Elias told me that he’s going out, so it’s up to the other assistants to show you the ropes. They’ll all be in the file room around this time.”  
“Right. Thank you!” Martin gave Rosie a little wave, which she returned, and headed up the stairs. He had barely even touched the handle of the file room when it flew open and he was face to face with an unusually handsome man wearing a dressing gown and slippers. 

“Ooh. Hello!” he said, face breaking into a winning grin. “You must be the new assistant! Guys!” he shouted back into the file room, “He’s here! What’s your name, newbie?”  
“M-Martin Blackwood,” Martin stammered, startled.  
“Lovely to meet you! I’m Tim, and this is everyone. Everyone, meet Martin. Martin, meet everyone.” Tim slung his arm over Martin’s shoulders. “Welcome to Hell. Your fellow denizens are, in order, Sasha-”  
Sasha, a black girl with fashionable thick-framed glasses and a huge soft cardigan, waved shyly.  
“Melanie-”  
A very short young woman with bleached, flyaway hair and a scowl dipped her chin.  
“Basira-”  
Basira wore a hijab, a hoodie under a jacket and a wary expression, sizing him up with a dark, long-lashed gaze.  
“And me, the brilliant Timothy Stoker. There’s the lovely Alice Tonner, too, but she’s having a bit of a moment right now. You’ll meet her soon.”  
It was all a bit too much for Martin, who blinked behind his glasses and gulped. “L-lovely to meet you all.” 

Tim swept by and rapped his knuckles on an empty desk. “This is you, Martin. Your base of operations, so to speak. Sasha will explain what we do in terms of the statements, the archives, official protocol, filing systems, blah blah blah. Basically we all labour to avoid irritating Jon, who as head archivist gets pissy about misfiled statements.”

“Is that J-O-N or J-O-H-N?” Martin asked Tim. 

His eyes unfocused for a second.

“J-O-H-N, I think. Yeah, there’s probably a H in there. We generally just call him Elbow Patches. He’s out right now, I’ll give you the grand introduction later. For now, though, just get to know the others, they’re all very nice! Don’t ask Melanie about Ghost Hunt UK though, it’s a touchy subject.”  
Martin pulled a chair over to Melanie, Sasha and Basira and smiled wanly, listening to the flow of conversation. Behind him a door slammed and he turned curiously to see who had passed. 

Tim caught his eye and said “That was John back from his lunch break. We,” he leaned forward, bringing the girls into the conversation, “have a theory that he runs off on his lunch breaks to meet up with someone he fancies. A girl? A guy? Who knows? He’s such an uptight, snooty, secretive, paranoid, suspicious, withdrawn, pedagogical stick in the mud that it’s impossible to tell.”

“A glowing character evaluation,” Melanie said drily. “He’s not wrong, though.”

“...Right.” Martin was vaguely beginning to miss Costa. “And what about Mr Bouchard? What’s he like?”  
Melanie and Basira exchanged glances. “He’s...well.” Melanie coughed. “Enough with the wishy-washy bullshit. Martin, how much do you know?”  
“How much do I _know?_ About what?”  
“Don’t play dumb. I read your statement. Elias hired you, and if Elias hired you that means you _know_.”  
“I - I don’t-”  
“Melanie, enough.” Basira interjected. “Have you ever seen anyone who looks more normal than this guy? He’s not an avatar. Leave him alone.”

An _avatar?_ Was she talking about the fears Jon had spoken of? Martin supposed it made sense, this being the Magnus Institute, but just how many people knew about these supposed fears? It was beginning to sound as though awareness of these hidden eldritch beings was just common knowledge and nobody had thought to tell him. Was Jon in any way affiliated with the Institute? What if they were enemies?

Martin didn’t know how much he was going to be able to say without exposing Jon. Moreover, he barely had a grasp on what was happening, so he judged it wiser to shut up. The mood had darkened considerably. Melanie’s expression was mutinous and she glowered at Martin as though he was the cause of all of her problems, then stood up and went outside. He could hear her talking angrily to Rosie through the wall.

“Right. Well.” said Tim. “Melanie seems chipper today.”  
“Tim,” Basira warned. He folded his arms.  
“Well, Martin,” Sasha clapped her hands and stood. “Come with me. I’ll show you around and teach you how to archive.” 

Martin followed her, wondering what the hell he had managed to get himself into.

Sasha was a good teacher, explaining everything clearly and with no wasted words. She left him with some statements for a moment to go ask Basira something and within a second Martin had his notebook out, comparing his notes on the entities. Things were beginning to line up - some of the creepier, more bizarre statements corresponded directly to what Jon had said. How close were these entities to the surface? How much did they prey on the public, if both Jon and -as he suspected - the Magnus Institute were doing work to document them? Sasha came back and Martin pocketed his notes once more, swallowing hard.

The hours spent with Sasha flew by in a blur of statement numbers and old tape recorders. It wasn’t boring - rather the opposite, actually, as Martin was transfixed by the creeping horror that statement givers described. He was left alone eventually as shadows inched their way further and further across the archive floor, certain in the knowledge that almost everyone else had gone home. 

Sasha poked her head around the door at about 5 and said her goodbyes, imploring him not to stay too long. He smiled and waved her out of the door, then leaned back in his chair and sighed. It was true, he did like it here, and despite his lack of expertise the statement numbers and filing systems made sense to him. He got up from his scratchy office chair and wandered around, stroking his index finger down the spines of folders, checking the reference numbers at the ends of the shelves. 

The fluorescent lights overhead were dim, casting hazy patterns of brightness and dark over the patterns of his jumper as he moved. Why hadn’t Elias Bouchard, his new boss, shown up today? Why had Melanie asked him outright what he knew? Why was everyone so jumpy, and how come nobody except Sasha and Rosie even remotely followed a dress code?

Martin got the distinct sense he was over his head. There was a larger plan, of that he was certain. He left the file room with the door ajar, pale light flooding into the featureless hallway, reached for his phone and dialed Jon. He ran a fingertip over the scrap of paper on which Jon had scribbled his number, having tucked it carefully into the clear pocket in his wallet. Jon’s name and number were written with the exact chicken scratch you would have expected from him - tall, loopy 0s and letters printed in hasty block capitals. Martin shook his head. First day on a new, exciting job and he was getting lost in the handwriting of someone he barely even knew. 

But that wasn’t right, was it? Martin, despite himself, couldn’t help but feel as though his relationship with Jon was more than the sum of their shared time together. Jon was more than a stranger to Martin now - he represented change, the unknown, a departure from banal routine. Hell, they’d saved each other’s lives. Martin knew implicitly that if anyone tried to hurt Jon he would put himself in their way.  
What a stupid thought. 

Martin bit the inside of his lip, cleared his throat and raised his phone to his ear.

“ _Hello?_ ” came Jon’s voice over the receiver.

It was scratchy and gruff, knocking Martin off his rhythm. He stopped walking and stood in the corridor, lingering, tracing imaginary patterns on the walls.  
“Jon? It’s Martin. How - How are you?”

“ _Oh - ah - Martin_ ,” it sounded as though he’d completely forgotten who Martin was. The thought that he was bothering Jon or that Jon didn’t care who he was was crippling. “ _I’m fine. I’m well. How are you?_ ”

“I’m good. I’m not in any danger, or anything, I just… I wanted to let you know that I found a new job.” His fingers twisted together painfully, afraid of what Jon would say next.

“ _Did you now?_ ” This was agony all of a sudden. Why had he called again? It wasn’t as though Jon cared. “ _Where?_ ” Steeling himself, Martin walked to the breakroom door, trying to form words for what he would say next.

The breakroom was lit with a harsh fluorescent light. Martin could hear someone talking inside, Tim probably, but he opted to focus on the conversation at hand. Jon seemed so distant and cold over the phone. He opened the door, phone at his ear. Inside the breakroom stood a fridge, a counter with a hob, a stained table, some rickety chairs, a rumbling kettle and…

“ _Martin?!_ ” Jon breathed, phone still at his mouth, staring at Martin with incredulity and dawning horror. He was leaning on the counter, his stooping form dressed in his usual smart-casual attire. He looked slightly greyer than the last time Martin had seen him, though how that could have happened in the space of about a week Martin didn’t know. His impossible, shifting, piercing eyes were fixed on Martin’s face, drinking in his features, dark pupils isolated in a sea of white. Under the harsh lights his scars were startling - the worm tracks by his jaw and up his arms, the hairline slit at his neck, the bubbled, burnt skin on his hand. 

“ _Jon?!_ ” The ground felt like it was falling away from under him.

“What are you doing here?” they said at the same time. Martin almost felt a smile beginning on his face, but it was crushed by the utter pain and fear carved into Jon’s features. 

“You- _This is where you work_?” Of course. Of course Jon worked here. Martin had been so blind - they had even mentioned Jon by name and Martin had been too stupid to put the pieces together. Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute. Everything slotted into place, the planets in his mind finally in formation.

“Elias hired _you_ ,” Jon spoke almost reverently, his fingers tracing vague patterns, his eyes still wide and fixed on Martin.  
“You’re the new assistant. Oh, Martin.” His gaze dropped and he stared blankly at the floor, brow creasing.

“What?” Martin demanded, almost angry at Jon’s complete lack of joy. “Why is that so bad? Jon?” 

With apparent effort, Jon raised his eyes from the lino floor back up to Martin’s face. A moment stretched between them as Jon, speechless, allowed his gaze to rove in that familiar, scouring way over him. “I’m so sorry, Martin,” he said at last, the lines of his brow and shoulders utterly defeated. “I tried so hard to keep you away from this damn place.”

His voice held a gentle, lilting quality to it that Martin had never heard before. It was as though Jon, in his emotional turmoil, was picking the words delicately from the air and spooling them out into the space between them.  
“ _Jon_.” Masking his fear with brusque irritation, Martin stalked over to the kettle, clicked it off, poured the hot water into two mugs with teabags and added milk from the fridge. Jon watched him, silent, transfixed. Martin clattered the mugs down on the ugly little table, folded his arms and said, “Sit. Tell me everything. And this time, don’t leave a single thing out. I’m only here because you _keep leaving things out_.”

Jon nodded, mute, and eased himself down opposite Martin, cupping the tea between long fingers. “First of all,” he began, “You won’t be able to quit.”

As Jon spoke, Martin began to understand why his reaction had been so extreme, and why his coworkers were all so… highly-strung. They were all of them trapped there, unable to quit, faced with horror after horror and being played against each other as part of some game Elias was playing. “Plus,” Jon added darkly, “If Elias dies, we all die too. At least, that’s what he says.”

Jon kept apologising profusely, repeating that it was solely his fault that Martin had ever got involved in the first place. Martin sipped his tea, then placed his hand with the mug on the table. 

His pinkie and Jon’s were less than a centimetre apart.

“You did nothing wrong, Jon,” said Martin. “You bought coffee, and then Daisy attacked you. That’s all. The rest was just avatars assuming we were boyfriends, or something.”  
He realised what he’d said and coloured, staring hard at the table.  
“Yes, I suppose so,” Jon answered, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Oliver Banks certainly seemed a little jealous.”  
With that, there was silence for a long moment, both of them bright pink, neither looking at the other, neither seeing the other’s matching embarrassment.  
“Well,” Jon stood, clearing his throat. “I’d walk you home, but I’m afraid we live in opposite directions. I’ll walk with you to the bridge, though?”  
“Sure, sure,” said Martin, beginning to smile. “Let me grab my coat.”

The night air was unusually cold for this time of year, and it gave Martin a little kick to see Jon wrapped up in a huge well-cut overcoat. It suited him, all hard angles and insouciant grace as he was. He looked away and gave the street lights reflected on the Thames an appreciative glance, not noticing Jon’s attention roaming over his furry parka hood and curly hair. 

“So, I guess we’re coworkers now,” said Martin, trying to sound light. “Not only that but you’re my _boss_.”

Jon’s demeanour soured. “True. I’m sorry, Martin, but I’m going to have to distance myself from you in the Archives. I don’t want to endanger you any more than I already have, and I know Elias is keeping a close eye on you. He’s going to manipulate you in order to get to me, that much is clear. You can trust Basira, Tim, Melanie, and Sasha - Daisy too, once she manages to overcome the Hunt’s influence. I wouldn’t call them good people, necessarily, but we’re in this together. But if I show Elias that I care about you,” (Martin’s heart stuttered) “or about any of them, that we’re _friends_ , he’s going to use that against me. He’s done it before to Daisy. I won’t let it happen to you.”

“...R-right,” Martin stammered. “Makes sense. You got it. Professional, and all that.”

They reached the bridge. Through the lapse in traffic they could hear the slow lapping of the Thames against the bank. Martin stopped and stood opposite Jon, lit by the wavering streetlight, regarding him uncertainly through his glasses. 

Somehow it felt that this was an important moment, like there was something unspoken passing between them. Jon still looked resigned, defeated, looking at Martin with guilt and concern. Twisting his pianist’s fingers together, he spoke.

“It was stupid not to tell you I worked at the Institute. I thought that if you knew that the Institute was the centre of all this it would draw you in closer, get you more involved. I now see that it did the opposite and I am so sorry, Martin. You’re in this with us now.”  
Jon was wringing his hands, agitated. “I… I wish I had never gone to that café. I wish I had never met you. All I seem to be able to do is draw people in to the entities, the fears, the avatars… I don’t mean to, but everything I do comes back to...” he trailed off, helpless.

Martin halved the space between them and clasped his hands over Jon’s, stilling their motion. Jon’s gaze stopped wandering over the pavements and lifted to meet Martin’s own. “It’s okay, Jon.” Martin said quietly. “It’s not your fault.” Barely knowing what he was doing, Martin tilted his head forward so that his forehead rested against Jon’s. He stayed there just a moment, the mist of their breath mingling in their negative space, then he drew back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Head Archivist.”

He walked away, leaving Jon staring after him. A heartbeat passed, then two, then ten, and finally Jon unstuck his feet from the cobbles and walked away into the gathering dark.

*

“No Elias again today?” Jon asked Melanie as he approached. It was a bright, crisp morning and they stood outside the redbrick Institute, shivering in the chill wind.

She flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette and scowled. “Nope. He’s been avoiding the archives lately. It’s like he knows he’s pissed us all off by hiring Martin and he’s lurking somewhere until we all cool down.”

“Sounds about right,” Jon replied. He’d had his own plans to march into Elias’s office with a rabid Daisy in tow and give out yards to him for so obviously attempting manipulation. Seemed like Elias had anticipated that, though.

“And there’s the question of Martin,” Melanie continued, taking a drag between words, “Why the fuck did Elias contact him at all? He’s not Marked yet, is he?”

“He has traces of The Dark and the End, but no real mark, no.”

“It makes no sense. Daisy and Basira I understand - Daisy can’t hurt Elias if it risks Basira, and you, Tim and Sasha have been in it from the start. Me… well, I think I was getting close to something he didn’t want me getting close to so he roped me in, too. But Martin?”

“I just don’t know, Melanie,” Jon said, weary, “With Elias, I don’t think anyone does.”

He left her there smoking at the entrance, nodded to Rosie and opened the door to the office. The room was flooded with sunlight. Trails of smoke from the little scented candles Sasha (carefully) kept on her desk spiralled and rose in the cool slants of daylight, which shone on Martin’s curls as he typed away at his computer. He glanced up from his monitor when the door clicked shut. Their eyes met, then Martin looked away. Jon’s heart constricted. 

“Morning, all,” he said, sweeping past to his office and closing the door.

That day, and the days after it, were spent with a similar routine: Jon holed himself up in his office and worked on statements Sasha or Basira brought him. Around noon, Tim would arrive, announce himself loudly, flop down in his chair and take out his hip flask, some popcorn and Netflix on his laptop. Tim, Melanie and sometimes Basira would watch shit reality TV or crime dramas until the late afternoon while Martin and Sasha worked. Sometimes, around two o’clock when everyone except Jon was eating in the break room, Martin would bring him tea and hand it to him.  
“Thanks, Martin,” Jon would say, trying not to look up from his statement.  
“No worries, Jon,” Martin always said, his fingertips lightly brushing the back of Jon’s hand.  
Then the door would shut behind him.

Though he would never admit it to himself, Jon lived for the moments his eyes met Martin’s. An electrical jolt would run through him, as though he’d been struck with Michael Crew’s lightning. All the blood would run to his face in an instant and he would have to excuse himself. It was horribly embarrassing, and his assistants were beginning to notice.

“Jon,” Tim said once, when they were washing their hands in the men’s toilet, “Why are you even weirder than usual lately?”  
Jon’s face went blotchy magenta again as he scrubbed his palms. “N-No reason. Why?”

“Ever since that new assistant showed up last w- Oh.” Tim’s face was the picture of dawning comprehension. “ _No_ ” he breathed, incredulous. Jon attempted to drown his next words out with the roar of the hand dryer, to no avail. “You _fancy_ him! Him? _Really?_ ”

“Trust me, Tim, you’ve got it wrong,” said Jon, heading for the door, but Tim blocked his way. “So he’s the one you’ve been all doe-eyed for this whole time! The one you’d hurry off to go see on your lunch breaks! And that time you ripped his statement out of my hands-- I’ve _got_ to tell Sasha--”  
“ _Don’t_ ” Jon snarled, finally seeing red. “For once in your life _stop_ putting your nose where it doesn’t belong, Tim. _Martin_ is nothing to me. He’s got himself involved in things that are way over his head and he has no idea what he’s doing. I’m trying to stop him getting himself killed, and instead of hanging around here accusing me of pointless, frivolous soap opera nonsense for some poor sod I don’t even know, maybe you could do something _useful._ Now get back to work.”  
He pushed past Tim and strode down the corridor to his office, slamming the door behind him.

Tim stood there a moment, perplexed, then shrugged. “Touchy bastard,” he muttered under his breath, letting the toilet door swing shut after him. 

Martin waited until he was sure he was gone, then released his breath and rested his sweaty forehead against the cubicle wall.

“Nothing to you, huh?” he said to himself, and squeezed his eyes shut.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy :)) please consider commenting!  
> If you want to see some of my TMA fanart, come shout at me at sicko-modes.tumblr.com!! :))


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